


Fault Lines

by discoveringmints



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discoveringmints/pseuds/discoveringmints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Season 3 AU] Kissing Ian is breathlessness and free-falling and euphoria bottled into a small flask labelled addiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ever since I heard the howling wind

_Forty._

_Forty-one._

_Forty-two._

His ceiling is a map of fault lines.

Ian wonders if the previous tenant of his apartment had moved out after becoming aware of the obvious fragility of the ceiling. His eyes have adjusted to the dark and the flickering light of the vacant sign across the street casts pillars of neon against his wall. Hour six of reading branches of jagged black on the plaster of his ceiling has passed just as quickly as the last five hours, and Ian wonders how many more times he can read this road map of cracks before the morning light hits him.

Ian had always been an expert on reading maps and compasses and directions- which made the entire situation all the more frustrating to him – for someone who could read any coordinate, on any map, he certainly hadn’t seen any of the recognizable signs that told him danger was up ahead. Or maybe he had been too distracted – by first love, by Monica, by the other five Gallaghers whose problems always seemed more important than his. Not that he minded – they often were- but maybe that’s why he hadn’t seen the cracks that had started to form along his own right and left hemispheres.

If he had, he would have known, from just a glance, where too rapid a movement would cause a catastrophic event. Like this damn ceiling. Ian is seriously hoping his neighbour that lives on the floor above him is particularly light on his feet- he doesn’t really know how many more cracks this ceiling can take.

The neon on his walls have shifted into a hazy grey, and without looking over at the clock on the table beside his bed, he knows that it is morning.  He knows that he has approximately thirty minutes before a reminding alarm will echo through his apartment, and will have nearly fifteen minutes after that before receiving a worried phone call from Fiona. But the light is slow to change and he figures he has time to retrace his steps along faulted lines once more, without causing any noticeable damage.

_One. Two…_

Ian begins to wonder if it’s actually the cracks on his ceiling that he has been counting all of this time.

 

* * *

 

It had been quiet at first- a whine in a dusty corner of his mind, a barely there sound that could be overlooked when enough of the world was playing past his eyes. He had ignored it at first, refused to look it directly in the eyes – how do you summon the courage to raise your eyes to meet the face of a broken version of yourself?

But he had known, even then. With the same ability that a world class entomologist possesses when asked to identify an insect, Ian could identify Monica’s genetics anywhere. He had seen too many huddled covers, brought up too many butter sandwiches, gently pleaded too many times, not to be painfully familiar with the direction that the tides in his mind were turning.  Yet, the thorn that had embedded itself into Ian’s chest since Mickey’s foot left its damage onto his face had blocked the quiet whine in the back of his mind. The pain of having his chest twisted and shredded into a mass of muscle that barely came close to resembling tattered rags used only to soak up the blood that a beating organ used to hold, was loud enough to block out most of the noise that wasn’t heartbreak or disaster.

But even with the acuteness of the pain in his chest, distracting him from the beehive that was beginning to form between his ears, the quiet buzz grew slowly into a roaring crescendo that Ian needed to get away from.

Looking back, it had been stupid to think that all he needed to quiet the buzz was to leave the town that held all of his memories. It had been stupid to think that running across state lines, while the beat that fueled the _thud_ of his heart stayed in a house of horrors, would help him feel any better. Nevertheless, he had left, soundlessly with his face still holding the imprint of Mickey’s shoe and his ROTC pack full of his meager belongings and maps of the East Coast.  That was three years ago. And somehow he ended up here, in a cheap apartment with a ceiling full of fragmented cracks and a mind full of fissures.

“How are you today?” Fiona’s voice, tired and worried, crackles through his poor phone connection.

“Good. Better.” It has been nearly nine months since the phone call and Ned and a New York emergency room. It has been nine months, and Fiona has insisted on calling every morning since then and Ian doesn’t have the heart to tell her that a phone call isn’t going to stop his heart from hurting, and that her voice is simply not enough to stop the occasional freight train of thoughts that race through his mind.

“And Mandy, how is she?”

Ian’s love for his sister overwhelms him in that moment. Her concern for a Milkovich convinces him that Mickey could always come back, convinces him that he is yet to come back.

“She’s good. Better.”

“Ian… you’re going to have to give me more than good and better one of these days, ok?” Her voice is chiding and light. Ian figures the coffee she was undoubtedly drinking during their conversation has made its way through her system by now. All traces of sleep and worry are gone now from her voice.

“Ok.”

“Ian…”

“Thank you for calling Fi. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Wow, more than three words. Thanks.”

“Bye Fi.”

“Was that your sister?” Mandy’s in the kitchen in a t-shirt and nothing else, holding two coffee cups in her hand.

“Uh huh”

“You sleep?”

“Nope”

“You ok?”

“Not you too, Mands.”

“Fine. Guess what Tony wanted to talk to me about yesterday?” The concern leaving her voice so quickly, Ian forgets it was there. 

It was less than seven months ago that Mandy had shown up at his door, a garbage bag filled with all of her possessions at her feet, face hidden by matted dark hair, hands wrung out.

And after four nights of no explanation and no questions, Ian had come home to Mandy passed out in a puddle of her own vomit, her body sprawled on their bathroom floor, empty bottles scattered in sixteen different games of spin the bottle. It was after four nights, that Ian sat with her; a hot pack against her stomach, and a cold compress against her head.

He had gathered fragments of the story that night then; Mickey leaving, Mandy being the only target Terry knew how to focus his frustration on, Mandy leaving to find Ian. And it was only when he had heard the words come from Mandy’s lips that he had realized that they had both been chasing a shadow all of this time.

It had hit him that it hadn’t been away from the buzz in his mind that he had been running, but instead he had been running towards something the _thud-thud_ in his chest called out nightly for. And as much as Mandy insisted she had come to New York to look for Ian, he knew it was the brother that people had always mistaken for as her twin that she was silently hoping to find instead.

And suddenly it is far too quiet, and Ian realizes Mandy has stopped mid-sentence and is staring at him with expecting eyes.

“You fuckhead. You weren’t listening again were you?”

She states the fact so simply, Ian can only imagine how easily his face must have been to read. He is attempting to pay attention to Mandy rave about a promotion at work, but he is slowly realizing the truth that her words hold.   

Because he hadn’t really been listening – not now, not then – he had never been very good at listening to things he didn`t want to hear. He had always been too stubborn to allow himself to listen in any other way that wasn`t the conventional call and response of a spoken conversation.

But maybe because it has been so long and Ian’s imagination has always been his strongest suit, _Fuck Off_ and _Warm mouth_ have morphed into silent beats that hold D _on`t leave_ and _I love you_. And even after all of the time that has passed, Ian swears he can still hear a response to the _thud-thud_ of his beating heart in the silences of his nights.

Mandy is still talking, now about a bar and celebratory drinks and Ian is drinking what is left of his lukewarm coffee. It’s bitter and smells pungent, and he wonders how fun a night surrounded by all of Mandy’s work friends could possibly be sober.

Mandy’s quick to answer his silent question. “So you’re coming right?”

He wants to say no, but how do you tell the sister of the man you used to love – your best friend- that you spend all of your waking hours living for the moment when you can sleep, just so you can catch a glimpse of him in a foggy dreamland, but can’t because all of your sleeping hours are wasted on the simple act of just trying to sleep without him.

But she’s smiling, and it’s the only time when Ian’s memory of Mickey is vivid and real, and he is desperate to keep that smile on her face – so he knows he has to agree.  It’s just another compromise, another welcome distraction from the beating silence that keeps him up at night.

“I’ll be there Mands.”

Her smile grows and he’s almost positive that he can see Mickey in the familiar space of her face.

For a small second, the tightness in his chest loosens.

For a small second, he forgets to remember it all. 


	2. I didn't need to go where the bible went

A florescent vacant sign is flickering across the street, and Mickey can hear the buzzing from where he is seated on the ledge of his window. He had figured if he stared at it long enough, he could induce a seizure. He’s still waiting for it to happen.

It smells faintly of exhaust and it burns the back of his eyes. The acrid taste in the air mixes with the tobacco that coats his mouth and the feeling reminds him of late summer nights that he thinks he probably should forget.

It’s too late, or too early, depending on where you are coming from and it is Mickey’s favorite time of day. The ambiguity provides him with a strange comfort and for a passing moment his uncomfortable skin is able to settle into the wrinkle of time.

His cigarette is mostly paper and filter now and the tobacco resides in the spaces of his cheeks where his teeth have gnawed craters and dents while Mickey fights the inevitable battle that is convincing himself that he needs to go to bed.

The bed was the last thing he had bought when he had moved in nearly eight months ago. He had spent weeks on the floor, in the smallest corner, wrapped up in an old sleeping bag he had stolen from the Goodwill.  It was only when Mickey had awoken in the middle of the night, face to face with a particularly wide-eyed rodent, that he went out to buy a mattress.

The sales woman, who had helped Mickey with his purchase, had avoided his eyes and **FUCK-U-UP** knuckles adamantly. And it was only in the moment when he nervously asked her for their smallest bed, that her eyes flew up to meet his.  

But even their smallest bed was too big. And the bed had to be restructured into something smaller, and as Mickey makes his way back into his apartment, the bed, now a cave of pillows, still seems to loom up at him in the dark. The pillows which he has stuffed up against the wall stack in such a way that only allows room for a single lone body on the edge of the mattress.

And still the bed is too big.

 

* * *

 

_His skeleton is a 1001 piece puzzle. He is fractures healed over and a shifting foundation on solid ground. His face, the constant canvas for blooming bruises and purple rainbows, is a mould for Terry’s fist; the bone flexes now instead of breaking after every wounding hit, having memorized the exact way it should fold around a fist._

_His skeleton is a 1001 piece puzzle, and yet the pads of fingertips ghosting his face don’t seem to know which pieces they fit in with. It is a few hours before Ian has to go back to the group home, it is minutes before day dissolves into dusk, and it’s just seconds after sparklers and fireworks erupted behind tightly shut eyelids. Mickey wants to replay the last few seconds infinitely._

_Stop._

_Rewind._

_Play._

_Repeat._

_They are undefined and sweaty, and Mickey feels… It’s hard for Mickey to know, in that moment, what it is exactly that he is feeling. He is mostly at a loss for words, and if someone were to ask him to articulate all that is swirling heavily in the center of his chest, he knows he wouldn’t be able to, because how is a boy, whose face only knows the shape of fists, supposed to understand love when it hits him._

_And so Mickey ignores the suddenly overwhelming feeling he has to run his tongue along the sweat under Ian’s jaw and blames these sudden urges on the joint they had shared earlier. But it’s a feeling that is foreign and leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth and if he’s being truly honest with himself, he would know that it is something so much sweeter, something so much more permanent than a two-hour high._

_“Mick?” Ian’s mumbling into the dark. They’re sprawled naked on the rooftop, and the skin on their backs are undoubtedly full of cement scratches and gravel markings and other non-permanent reminders of the night._

_“Hmm?”_

_“Do you ever have the urge to just leave?” It’s this conversation again. Mickey is sure they have had it at least half a dozen times. It goes the same every time. And so following the script, he asks “Where would I fuckin’ go?”_

_“What do you mean where would you go? You could go anywhere Mickey!” Ian’s sitting up now, excited…again._

_“I’m fine here, Gallagher, settle down.” He is yet to open his eyes, but he is certain he can predict Ian’s every facial movement. Eyes wide, mouth moving too quickly for him to follow, excitement causing that damn blush to stain his cheeks. Mickey would be damned if he were to open his eyes and be wrong._

_“Yea for right now, maybe, but I mean, what about your future? Don’t you wanna end up somewhere but here?”_

_“What fuckin’ future do I have? Gallagher, why the fuck are we talking about this right now?” He doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to present his case to the jury, yet again; hates having to explain that he isn’t made of anything beyond the fists and bloodied knuckles. But Ian, is shaking his head, and looking at him with those goddamn eyes, and Mickey can hear the judge making his verdict without Mickey having even spoken a word._

_Still he doesn’t want to hear it, and so he’s changing the dialogue faster than a politician can when painted into a corner, “Did you need more time, or are you ready to go again Firecrotch?”_

_And just like that, he can see the change in Ian’s eyes. The green darkens considerably, the shift going straight to his gut and he is instantly hard. Before Mickey can blink again, they are tangled in their familiar dance, of bruising hands, and knocking hips._

_“Fuuccck” And suddenly, Ian is grinding out profanities between teeth into his ear that shut off his mind and rushes all the blood in his body south. Mickey thinks he can feel a trail of wet kisses down his shoulder, but he can’t be certain because suddenly it’s white behind his eyelids, and pleasure shooting through his body and all he can do is grasp at the sleeping bag beneath them and hope he’ll come back down to reality in one piece._

_Mickey is certain it’s sweeter than any high he’s ever had._

* * *

 

 

Mickey hates dreaming.

Even more, Mickey hates the feeling he gets after waking up from a dream.

It’s the feeling of losing the eternal internal battle of resisting sleep because dreaming is like remembering and remembering is too fucking painful, and surrendering to sleep because just the act alone of being awake is exhaustingly painful.  It’s the feeling of not actually knowing what amounts to losing. It feels pretty fucking shitty either way.

He’s alone, he’s cold, he’s sober and there’s a maddening twinge that is twisting in his chest. And it reminds him of when he had hitchhiked his way aimlessly from town to town with Terry’s drug money and a pillowcase full of clothes.

It had been cold then when he had left, but he had always been too hungry or too tired, or too desperate to keep moving, to allow memories to completely evade his dream space. It had been a month of stolen cars and sleeping in drugstore bathrooms before he found himself in this state, with its bright lights and empty promises and a one room rent controlled apartment that he could still barely afford. But it was a block away from where a **HELP WANTED** sign hung low in the window of what looked like an abandoned warehouse, and Mickey had needed a job- a real job with real money that wasn’t stolen or cheated or scammed.

It would have been easier for him to run drugs along the East Coast for his uncle. Fuck, he probably would be living in a nicer apartment had he made that decision. But, he couldn’t risk it after what had been done; couldn’t risk getting caught, couldn’t risk raising any flags.

It wasn’t like jail was a foreign concept to someone like Mickey Milkovich, or that the thought of getting arrested frightened him, but this was different.

This involved Mandy. Sweet, broken Mandy, who had punched Randy Kilgore in the nose when he had laughed at Mickey’s pathetic excuse for a toy at the sandbox when he was six, and Mandy was five.

Sweet, and broken Mandy, who had always come to Mickey because there was never a time when Mickey hadn’t protected Mandy, and because there was never a time when Mandy wouldn’t have taken a bullet for Mickey.

And it’s because they really should have been twins, and because it’s Mandy’s tear-stained cheeks and pleading eyes that make their way into his dreams some nights.

Mickey really fucking hates dreaming.

He is still regretting his decision to buy a mattress; he had always been more comfortable when his body was uncomfortable, cold, bloody, stiff – put any Milkovich in that environment and they were bound to strive.

The reminder that he had actually gone out to _purchase_ something, a mattress for that matter, makes him scoff out loud and he thinks someone should have written a headline somewhere: MICKEY MILKOVICH BUYS BED.And he’s laughing fully now, alone in his one-room apartment, a full bellied laugh, that sounds more like glass shattering than any real laugh and it doesn’t take him very long to stop and realize how pathetic and broken it must sound.

It hasn’t sounded whole since – his mind isn’t allowing him to finish that thought.

Instead it’s pushing through the memories and the sounds and is pulling him back into the present and the silence that plagues his apartment. There’s a scrape of door against the floor in the apartment below  and the sound of a woman’s muted voice announcing her presence, and Mickey knows it’s time to get himself out of bed.

There’s a mumbling of voices below him as he rinses his mouth with a swig of Jack and then a familiar thumping sensation of bass makes its way through his floorboards.

“FUCK!” If there is anything Mickey has learned that he hates more than dreaming, it’s waking up from a dream to shitty Top-40 shit and with his bad mood made effectively worse,  he wants to run down a floor and show the residents of the apartment below, what exactly the tattoos on his knuckles mean.

They’re fucking lucky that he’s running late for work.

He’s on his way out, the word SECURITY stretched across the back of his work jacket, his door scraping against his floor, his lock clicking into place, when he hears a laugh that doesn’t sound like glass shattering- it’s a sound that makes his blood freeze instantly.

But then, it’s gone, and all he hears is the _thump-thump_ of the bass from the floor below. 

He knows for certain, that it isn’t the _thump-thump_ of his own blood responding to a sound that reminds him of the sweetest high he has ever known.

 


	3. And you know your gifts seem heaven sent

It’s nearly nine when she finally leaves work, and it is bright lights that illuminate the city now instead of the sun. But she doesn’t really mind.

This is Mandy’s favorite time of year -when the city is stripped bare of all of its pretenses and the trees stand unadorned and revealing in the jagged shape of their skeletons, readying themselves for the inevitable blanket of white. 

The ground is a minefield of gold and crimson and she can hear the sounds of a thousand paper thin spines break beneath her as she walks home.

 _Home_.

It’s odd for her to think that the cramped space with peeling plaster and cracked walls is what she calls home these days. Odd only because for nearly seventeen years of her life, home had been bloodied floors and weeping walls. But then again, there had been a time when she would have, in a heartbeat, called the eldest Gallagher boy her home, so maybe she doesn’t really understand the whole concept of home anyways.

She really should have expected it – how it all played out in the end. Boys like him never ended up with girls like her- dirty, broken girls with only their bodies to offer.

But he had been kind and she hadn’t known what to do with his kindness except to take all of the lingering looks and the sweet, sweet touches and twist them into a second skin that she wore to mask the marks and the filth. She had convinced herself wholly that just the act of simply being with someone so good could clean the permanent dirt on her skin.

And every time he had kissed her, or knocked on her window, or chose to spend his time with her, she couldn’t help by feel like for the first time in her life’s entirety, that she, the girl with all her marks and scars and dirty secrets, was being chosen because she had something worth loving, that _she_ was something worth loving.

But the Gallagher boys had always been meant for greater loves and greater lives, and she thought that she had always been meant for the Southside. She knew she didn’t have what it took to have a boy like Lip Gallagher stick around – had never been able to master the duality of being dirty and pure all in the same breath. She had always aired too far on the side of _slut_ and _whore_ to ever look good in white anyways.

This city, and Ian, however, took her in, scars and all. Didn’t ask her to change a single thing, and loved all of her broken pieces. This city never had the unrealistic expectation that she should fit into some twisted dichotomy of womanhood and instead let her wear her sexuality loudly on the nights that she chose to while allowing her to still look at the world through child eyes the next morning, without judgement, without critique.

“Milkovich? Your order is ready.”

Mandy is brought out of her reverie as the woman at the counter hands her a paper bag of take out. The grease is already forming dark shadows of oil at the bottom of the bag and she hopes she makes it home before Ian leaves for work.

She has her key in the lock of their apartment when she hears a sound that remotely resembles laughing. For a moment, worry courses through her and she thinks of Ian, but the sound is coming from the floor above and it sounds sad and broken and something about it is causing something in her to call out.  

But she brushes the feeling back and pushes her way into the apartment and announces her arrival.

“Ian, I have food! What time do you have to leave?”

Ian’s on the couch reading some book she recognizes as one of the many he had bought at the flea market over the summer. He smiles, a not-quite-whole smile, at her as she enters the room and she can hardly remember the last time she had seen his characteristic full faced shit-eating grin.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out exactly who could induce that kind of smile from him. And neither of them had seen him in at least a year.

 “I don’t work tonight Mands.” The news instantly brightens her mood. Nights in with the two of them were rare, with him working most nights and she most days and she intended on taking full advantage of a night in with her best friend. Her best friend who thinks she’s most beautiful in the morning holding a cup of coffee with nothing masking her face; her best friend, who is, despite his words to argue otherwise, still in love with the boy that shares her eyes.

“Well come help me with the food then, we can watch a movie or something?”

Ian nods in response as he adjusts the switch to their radio until it is on. It’s a piece of shit and the antenna is held together by duct tape, and they can only really find one station, but bringing it home had made Mandy feel like she was contributing something to the apartment that Ian had let her keep it.

They’ve both become immune to the happy pop that plays from the one station they are able to get. It makes Mandy laugh because she knows if Mickey were here, he’d have thrown out the stereo a long time ago.  And for the second time tonight, she finds her mind drifting to thoughts of the brother who should have been her twin.

It’s been nearly a year since she last saw Mickey. His face had been swollen and bruised and his body bent forwards as if the weight of defeat were too heavy to tolerate.  He hadn’t let her through the door that day, hid most of his body behind the threshold and stuck only part of his face through the crack to ask her to leave.

_“The fuck are you talking about Mick? Why do I have to leave?”_

_“Mandy, just go.”_

_“Mickey, I live here just as much as you do. Get the fuck out of the way.”_

_“Bitch, I’m not kidding. Come back tomorrow. Go stay with Aunt Rani or something for the night.”_

And because, Mickey had never been one to hurt her, she listened.  But had she known that that would be the last time she would see him, she would have found a way in – or at least those are the words she has to tell herself to help her sleep at night.

She hears the door above them slam and lock just as Ian asks her what movie they should watch.

And she knows she should be answering, and moving the muscle in her mouth to form some sort of sound, but she’s too busy trying to remember the broken sound Mickey’s laugh used to make. 


	4. I don't know how you housed the sin (but you're free now)

It’s dark, and the body beneath him is writhing as his tongue paints Picasso along the skin.

“Fuck, Ian, don’t st-...ugh.” And then the body underneath him is shuddering and clutching at the sheets and it makes Ian smirk. There’s a silent kind of power that comes with being able to render someone useless with just your tongue.

The hands below him are grasping up at him and pulling him in for a kiss. The motion makes him falter; his mind needing to be warned that the lips seeking his aren’t the ones whose taste is branded onto his tongue.

After a breath, he brings his lips to touch the awaiting ones below him, and is greeted with a groan and more grasping hands. Not wanting to be a completely selfless lover, Ian flips the man beneath him over and begins trail his tongue down the track of knobs until he licks the spot that makes the spine arch.

“Ian, go. I’m good. Come on. Get on me.”

The words are frighteningly familiar and Ian freezes as he enters the man with the arched back and sour lips. Something behind his eyes rattles again, and the boy beneath him is suddenly marked in tattoos and dirt and _demanding_ that Ian move.

Ian shakes his head quickly, to get rid of the rattling, but the movement only shifts the focus, and all he can see now are blue eyes hidden behind focused brows, a head thrown back, neck exposed, and hands gripping. It’s like a re-enactment of his favorite scene from his favorite movie, and if you didn’t know what you were looking for, you could mistake it for the original.

But Ian has memorized every scene from a time when the boy under him had been full of tattoos and sweat, to know that the space just below the jaw that is currently clenched beneath him won’t fit his nose and will smell too sweet and cigarette free.

And the skin – even though the skin below him is flawless and clean, Ian has never felt dirtier.

“Shit, Ian. That was great.” The man, James, has collapsed on his side and is biting his lip in satisfaction. His skin is unmarked and his hair is perfectly disheveled and if Ian hadn't spent the last year and a half trying to find the cure for the agonizing ache that happened every time his heart beat in his chest _,_ this man in his bed next to him would be perfect.

He _is_ perfect, and for a moment Ian feels guilty. Because this man with a steady job and handsome face likes holding Ian’s hand in public and just last week kissed him on the subway for no reason at  all. He is perfect and Ian knows that his twelve-year old self would have been ecstatic to have someone like James want to be with him. 

But somehow, now it’s the slightly broken things that hold the most beauty to Ian.

“Ian. I have something to ask you.”  There’s a curiosity in James’ voice and it makes Ian weary. It’s too late for this, and he refuses to open his eyes.

“Hmm?” It’s as non-committal of a sound that Ian can muster.

“My parents are having their 65th wedding anniversary next weekend. Their friends are hosting a party up in the Hamptons. I was wondering if you wanted to come.”

Ian doesn't know what to say. Because it’s barely been two months with James and it had taken Mickey light years longer to even consider looking at him in the eyes when they fucked. And here was James asking Ian to meet his parents with the same nonchalance one would have when placing a food order.

But because he already feels guilty about fucking James with his face pressed hard into the pillow, just so he didn't have to look into eyes that didn't reflect the sky, he agrees, “Of course. What should I get them?”

“Just come. I really want you to meet everyone.”  James’ face is illuminated by the blinking neon of the vacancy sign outside and Ian can see his teeth through his smile in the dark. It bears a striking resemblance to the Cheshire cat. 

“Ok.”

As Ian turns around and faces the door while James lies next to him staring up at the ceiling, he tries to remember the last time he craved wrapping his arms around another body after sex. It certainly hasn't happened with James.

“Jesus, Ian, I didn't realize how many cracks were in your ceiling before. We should think about moving you out of this apartment. I don’t know how you live like this. You’re lucky I like you so much.” His voice is chiding and carries a slight undertone of judgement.

Ian refrains from responding, the overwhelming feeling of apprehension numbing him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

_“What you wanna fuckin’ cuddle Gallagher? What are we, a couple of bitches? Nah, get off me man.”_

_Mickey’s already wound up again and antsy so soon after sex, and Ian doesn't know whether to find it endearing or sad that the only time he can get Mickey to relax is when he’s pushing himself into the older boy._

_Mickey tries to push past Ian to reach for his pack of cigarettes on the bench, but Ian doesn't back down easily, at least not this time. He holds his ground, and presses his body into the curve of Mickey’s spine. His head finds the space that he thinks- no, he **knows** \- was designed just for him, and places a soft kiss against the sensitive skin beneath Mickey’s ear. _

_Ian can’t be sure if the ragged breath he hears Mickey exhale isn't just his imagination._

_“Come on man, get off me. I brought us something we could smoke.” And then the moment has passed, and Ian is left with nothing but cold and empty summer space between his arms._

_It’s the worst kind of empty that Ian has ever felt, and he’s trying to wipe the disappointment from his face, when an arm suddenly appears around his waist. The skin is hot and the weight of the limb anchors his fluttering pulse back into something steady. He’s so warm and Ian knows it can’t just be because it’s summer. It’s a warmth that arrests his movements and slithers through –_ It’s too warm.

Ian’s too warm and unexpectedly awake and the arm wrapped around his waist does not lead to tattooed hands. He can understand the feeling Dorothy must have felt when she made it to the end of her yellow brick road.

The skin isn’t pale enough and the feeling is all wrong. And now Ian is not only too warm, but irritated as well. He climbs out of bed, louder than he should and makes his way into the bathroom.

He reaches to open the cabinet where bottles stand like soldiers ready for inspection. He chases the pills down with a palm full of water before he makes his way into the kitchen, where Mandy is already pouring two cups of coffee.

“James stay over last night?” Ian can tell she’s trying to come off as casual, but it sounds more disapproving than anything.

“Yup.” He doesn’t miss the way her eyes roll and her head slightly shakes. “What is it Mands?”

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” But her eyes are holding something sad, and it makes Ian wonder if she’ll ever admit to him that she knew about Mickey.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Drop it Ian. It’s nothing.”

He’s about to retort, when he hears his phone ring in the bedroom, and then just as clear as the ringtone had been, he hears James’ voice float from the bedroom, “Hello, this is Ian’s phone.”

“Oh, hello, I’m sorry this is James. And may I ask who is calling?”

Mandy’s eyes have doubled in size, and Ian is sure his face mirrors her expression. They’re both standing at the counter faces frozen, and unsure of how to approach the situation, when James walks into the kitchen with Ian’s phone.

“Morning babe! Some girl named Fiona is calling for you, should I tell her you’ll call her back?”

Ian doesn’t miss the incredulous look that takes over Mandy’s face. She had never been very good at poker.

“No, I’ll take it.” And before James can say another word to him, or Fiona, Ian swipes the phone out of his hand and walks towards the door, “Hey Fi, sorry about that.”

“What the fuck was that? Do you have a personal assistant that I don’t know about Ian? I’m all about you and Lip getting out of the Southside, but I’m your sister, and I will _not_ be put on hold.”

Ian can’t help but smile. Even after all of this time, Fiona refuses to acknowledge that she is more than a sister to him and his siblings –  instead insists on acting like she is still like one of them and not some volun-told matriarch of their family.

“That’s James, Fi. He’s just a guy I’ve been…seeing, I guess.”

“Oh. Weird. Why was he picking up your phone?”

“Me and Mandy were wondering the same thing.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a real keeper Ian," Fiona’s sarcasm isn’t lost on Ian, but he decides to let it go.

“How’re Liam and Carl and Debbie?”

“They’re good; they’re excited to see you over Christmas. You’re coming home right?”

“If I can afford the tickets, I will Fi.” He had missed last year’s Christmas, albeit he had missed a lot of last year. Last year was simply fragmented memories held together by cheap scotch tape.

“Ok. Lip’s coming home too. He was accepted into that Graduate program at MIT for after he finishes his degree, did he tell you?”

“No, we haven’t spoken in a few weeks.” Ian could taste the lie bitter on his tongue. They actually hadn’t spoken since the hospital nine months ago. Lip had been furious, his hair wild from his hands constantly combing themselves through it.

“Well you can talk to him when you come home. You should bring Mandy too.”

“Ok, I’ll let her know.” It is still odd to him, having Fiona so accepting of a Milkovich, but he figures she is just grateful that there is someone there to live with him – to look out for him.

 “How are you today bud?” And then the routine question. Ian’s not smiling so easily anymore.

“Good.”

“Ian.”

“I’m good Fi.”

“I can do this dance a lot longer than you Ian.”

“I’m good.”

 _“FIONA –_ Just wait, Ian – Debbie, I’m on the phone, stop yelling. – IS THAT IAN?! – Yea, Debbs-HI IAN! – Debbie, jesus, stop shouting – BYE IAN. FIONA I’M LEAVING, I’LL BE HOME LATE, GOT A DATE.” And with that Ian hears the door slam and Fiona let out an exasperated sigh through the phone.

“A date huh?”

“I don’t even know. She went out at 8 am on a Sunday last week in hooker heels and a mini skirt. It was like 10 degrees outside.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m glad you’re doing well Ian. James sounds like a tool. Tell Mandy about Christmas.”

“Love you too, Fi.”

“Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time.”

He walks back into the kitchen to see James and Mandy in some awkward staring contest that reminds Ian more of Wild West showdown than an awkward morning after encounter– one with coffee cups and a lot less clothing.

James is  first to break the silence, “So, Ian, babe, I don’t have to work today and was thinking we could get some breakfast and spend the day together before you go to work tonight?”

Ian is overwhelmingly grateful for Mandy and her promotion, “I’m sorry man, I have plans with Mandy tonight, and so I took the earlier shift instead.”

And that’s all that he should have said, but his tongue is still moving, and it’s though he’s on the puppet end of some incredibly sadistic ventriloquist, “But you should come out tonight, I could use the company. I’ll text you the address.”

He can feel Mandy’s eyes on him, and he feels bad for her; anymore surprises today and her eyes will surely not have sockets to fit into anymore.

“Sure Ian, count me in,”

It’s only when James finally leaves their apartment, that Mandy recites the dialogue that partially explains her bug-eyed state.

“What the actual fuck Ian? I invited you. I did not invite James.” The atmosphere no longer reminds Ian of the Wild West, but instead of the nightmare that is Mandy before coffee.

“Mands, I’m sorry. But, he’s my guest, and I’ll entertain him. I don’t really understand why you dislike him so much.”

“REALLY?!? Really? Come on Ian, he couldn’t be further from your type.”

“And what exactly is my type Mands.”

“You – just forget it Ian.”

“No really. Enlighten me, what is so terribly wrong with James?” Ian doesn’t really understand why he’s defending the guy, it’s not like he doesn’t agree with Mandy.

But, it’s this silent game of tug of war that they’ve been having for the last week that Ian wants to end. Neither of them has spoken the name since that night nearly eight months ago, as if releasing it from their mouths could poison the air.

“Are you actually serious? What’s wrong with him? Where should I start?” Her eyes have officially outgrown their sockets, and Ian feels only slightly guilty about going through this amount of trouble to hear someone other than himself mutter the name his ears yearn to hear,“ He thinks he’s better than you Ian, he wants you out of this neighbourhood, you’re not good enough for him the way that you are.”

“At least he holds my hands in public Mandy! Fuck, last night he invited me to meet his parents- at their 65TH FUCKING ANNIVERSARY!?! What’s so wrong with that?”

“Grow the fuck up Ian; you and I both know you’re his project that needs fixing. And when you’re all shined up and new, he’ll be expecting to be praised and thanked for being such a selfless person. He thinks you need to be fixed Ian.”

“At least he cares enough about me to- “

“Shut up Ian, seriously, if you can’t see it –“

“Can’t see what Mandy? Tell me-“

“HE’S NOT MICK-“She doesn’t finish the word, but Ian doesn’t care, it’s enough. The rattling in his brain has settled slightly from hearing just the single syllable.

All the air in the room has been removed with the sharp intake of Mandy’s shocked breath.

“Ian, I-“

“It’s fine Mandy.”

“No, seriously, there are some things that you should know –“

“Not right now ok?”

“Ok.” Mandy’s eyes have returned to their normal size, but there is still a sadness behind them that frightens Ian, “I don’t think you need fixing Ian.”

“I know Mands. I know.”

“Are you still coming tonight?”

“Mands, don’t be stupid. Of course I am. Stop frowning. Seriously, we just haven’t had an argument in ages – it’s healthy.  And I needed to hear you say his name. Come here.”

She looks so guilty and worried, and for an instant she reminds Ian of the little girl that used to wait with him at school when Monica would forget to come and get him. But she’s wrapped in his hug, and he’s curious, “When did you know?”

“When did I know what?”

“About Mickey,” the name on his tongue reminds Ian of velvet and sin. And he wonders what would happen if he were to ever see the owner of the name again.

“Two years ago.”

“He told you?!”  

“Um. Not really.”

“You saw us?!”

“Do you really want to know the story Ian?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you love him?”

“I’m trying not to.”

“With James?” 

“I guess.”  And Mandy is nodding, as if the answer is sufficient enough. But he knows, that she knows, that James is no Mickey, and Ian wonders if has committed himself to a lifetime of comparing his lovers to a tattooed boy with marked up skin.  


	5. I was never sure how much of you I could let in (are you free now?)

It's fuckin' cold.

It's the kind of cold that forces your own blood to plan an escape, punching tiny holes into the surface of the skin. Mickey is certain he can even feel his bones try to break the surface in an attempt to seek warmer weather.

Mickey is pissed that the jacket he brought is covered by some skank's vomit from earlier that night. He's cursing her piss poor ability to hold her liquor, and while he's at it, he's cursing Tom, who has strangely disappeared after going inside nearly two hours ago.

In most situations, Mickey would be taking pride in the idea that he, who is a good 180lbs lighter than Tom, can outlast him in his cold.

But it's fuckin' cold. And all he really wants is to go inside. But he can't. Because Tom has apparently forgotten that he is getting paid to work security  _outside_  with Mickey and not as some prissy son of a bitch who sits  _inside_  at the corner of a warm bar.

He lights what has to be his fifth cigarette of the night, and tries to stretch the sleeves of his shirt so they wrap around his hands. The mouthful of warm carcinogens does nothing to warm him up and he's about to put out his cigarette, when he sees a movement to his right.

A tall figure stands just beyond the light, face hidden beneath a hood. Mickey can see him approach from his peripheral and before he has the chance to blink an outstretched hand appears in the center of his vision.

"Tha' fuck?" The hand in front of him is startlingly freckled and insistent and holding an unlit cigarette.

"Just need a light, man."

Grumbling Mickey pulls out a lighter for the outstretched hand. But his hand is twitching, and his thumb can't seem to grasp the lighter properly to start the flame. It's something about that voice that is reverberating deep into the back of his spine, and causes his pulse to scream  _I know you; I could never forget you_ , and his hands to lose their ability to function.

Mickey blames it on the cold.

It's only when the hand in front of him quickly grabs the lighter from his trembling hand, that Mickey feels brave enough to sneak a quick glance to the man beside him. The overhead lights cast long shadows and hides the majority of the face, but Mickey could name that face in the darkest of darks.

With his cigarette lit, the man hands Mickey's lighter back and mutters a, "Thanks."

Mickey is certain that the muscles in his hands are not the only ones that have suddenly decided to lose their function, but he doesn't really want to test his theory, and so he grunts a sound of acknowledgement instead.

Neither of the men says anything while they breathe out a duet of tobacco and smoke. Everything is too quiet and too cold, and Mickey can feel himself start to form an irrational anger towards the so-called mother of nature.

_Bitch._

The band inside has just announced their last song and Mickey can hear the crowd scream; but all of the sounds are dimmed by the roaring of blood being pumped past his ears.

_Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror from years ago._

_Innocence died screaming, ask me, honey I should know._

He can faintly make out the sounds of broken lyrics while the two of them stand in the dark sharing a miniature umbrella of light and a silence punctuated with the lead singer's crooning.

_Babe, there's something wretched about this._

_Something so precious about this._

There are words that are piled up on the end of his tongue, trying to push their way through his chattering teeth, but the silence wins and it takes all of Mickey to stop his eyes from sliding over to get another look at the face whose map he has etched into his eyelids.

But like every battle he's tried to fight tonight, he loses that one too, and steals another look over at the man beside him who is staring straight ahead, cigarette locked between the lips that used to wrap themselves around Mickey.

His face looks older than Mickey can remember and his hair is a little longer, but his profile is just as striking as his memories and he can't look away. His face is unreadable in the dark, and Mickey finds himself yearning to stand a little closer just to feel the warm clouds of heat, that he can see escaping with each breath, on his cheek.

The band inside is no longer playing and Mickey knows they have mere minutes before the bar starts to empty. He tries again futilely to fold his tongue into a shape that will allow him to produce some sort of noise.

Before he even has the chance to lose yet another battle, a man's voice rings out, "Hey Ian, we're going. Come on!" The voice is deep and clean and it grates against Mickey's ears. Mickey instantly hates the faceless stranger.

He wonders if tonight's the night that his heart will decide to stop working. His blood is flying so quickly past all of his pulse points, that he is sure a pulse is undetectable. He's sweating despite being so cold and he dares not to look up at the boy whose face he sees every time he closes his eyes.

It's a few seconds longer of rubber stretched silence, and Mickey begins to wonder if Ian is still standing there – if he was really standing there to begin with. His doubts are answered when, in the dark between them, he hears a voice almost as quiet as the silence itself.

"It was nice to see you again Mick."

 

* * *

 

It's fuckin' cold, but this time Mickey doesn't have a drunken skank or Tom to blame it on. He's been standing in the same spot for the last few hours and the light that had bathed him shut off a while ago.

His mind is still reeling and frozen from the sound of Ian saying his name. It's intoxicating and paralyzing and it's the best feeling Mickey has felt in over a year.

"Llyod? What're you still doing here man? Your shift ended an hour ago!" Jerry is standing by the door, keys in hand, with a look of concern on his face.

"Uh huh" His tongue is still stuck and heavy, and he's cursing his inability to produce single syllabic sounds.

"Lloyd man, everything alright?" Jerry is looking so concerned that his eyebrows have somehow disappeared into the fat and hairline of his face. It's a discerning look, and Mickey's trying hard to put it all into words.

"Jesus, Lloyd. I don't know what happened to you tonight, but come with me, I'll give you a lift home. You're looking rough."

The kindness of Jerry's gesture is not lost on Mickey, but still he manages to shake his head in a decline.

"Ok, if you're sure Llyod. Call me tomorrow if you're still looking as … I'm not quite sure what you look man, but it's not good," Jerry's face is a hybrid of concern and disgust, and Mickey can only imagine how much paler he is in comparison to his normal state, "Anyways, just let me know if you can't make it into work tomorrow – I'll call up some people just in case you can't."

Mickey watches Jerry's retreating back and wonders how he managed to end up on the receiving end of Jerry's weird paternal kindness.

 

* * *

 

 _The_ _**HELP WANTED** _ _sign that he noticed earlier still hangs in the window and he wonders how hard this job can be to get. The building looks worn and old and he can't even be too sure what exactly it's supposed to be._

_As he walks in, he's hit with the overwhelming hit of booze and sweat, and he can see a man at the back of the poorly lit room._

_"_ _Oi, name's Llyod." Mickey's grimacing at his choice of alias. Of all the names he could have possibly chosen, he goes with the fuckin' geriatric viagroid that had been fucking Ian. Jesus. "There's a help wanted sign in the window. I'm here to help."_

_The man is leaning against a bar where papers are strewn and his face holds a humoured expression. Mickey can see him trying to interpret the sight that has just walked into his bar – torn sweater, dirtied face – Mickey had always been about making good first impressions._

_"_ _Ok, Llyod. Do you have a CV with you?" The man's voice is friendly and without judgement._

 _"_ _The fuck?"_

 _"_ _Resume, man. Do you have a resume?"_

 _"_ _The fuck are you talking about? I just wanted to know if I could get a job."_

_Jerry easily has 200lbs on Mickey, which is the only reason he's doing all he can to not punch the guy in the face. Because this man, who has somehow managed to allow even the skin of his eyelids to gain an unhealthy amount of weight, is laughing. Not a small, polite laugh, but a fuckin' full bellied laugh._

_And Mickey is almost positive he's what this man, who looks like he ate a Sumo wrestler for lunch, is laughing at._

_"_ _You are a riot man! Do you have any experience with security? That's what the job is for."_

 _"_ _Uh, sure." Mickey is pretty sure leaving out the part about how he spent most of his time "working security" with a certain red head in the freezer, is for the best._

 _"_ _Ok man! Name's Jerry, I'll be your boss. Let me explain how this will work – "_

And like that, with no other questions and no inquiry into his last name, Mickey got the job. It wasn't a great job, the pay was shitty and Jerry moved him between the three bars that he owned throughout the state. But it was a job that didn't ask him a lot of questions and paid him real cash that wasn't stolen or scammed.

His feet have decided to regain their function and he makes his way towards his apartment. But when it rains it pours and Mickey has not only regained the ability to move his feet, but also the thoughts and words that he had been trying so desperately to produce a few hours ago.

The questions he had come all at once and fills his mind up, until Mickey is not only cold, but also stuck with a throbbing pain behind his eyes.  _Why are you here? Why'd you leave? Are you ok? How are you? Did you miss me as much as I miss you?_

As Mickey approaches the front of his apartment, he's too tired and too cold to notice the flash of red in a window on fourth floor. He definitely doesn't notice a man with clean hands and hair that is perfectly disheveled huff past him, his perfect face broken into a thousand pieces of heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song playing is From Eden (Hozier)


	6. Won't you settle down baby? (Part 1)

_Ten Months Ago_  

It’s late.  He wishes he hadn’t forgotten to pack his watch when he had left Chicago. The doors are closed and the neon letters that normally shine OPEN are colorless. It’s cold. His t-shirt is too thin, too tight – the T’s snap elastic echoes into his ear. Fiona had spent a week with him pointing out all of the objects that started with T. _Can you say this word Ian? Tire. Tree. Not Three. Tree. Try again Ian._

He’s running. Faster, still. The cold sweat is now hot on his back. His lungs are burning. Cold air in. Hot breath out. He craves to stop, but he’s late. _He’s late. For a very important date! No time to say hello, goodbye! I’m late! I’m late! I’m late!_ What time is it?

He forgot his watch in Chicago. And his warmer sleeping bag. And other things that are more vital than a sleeping bag and a watch, but thinking about them makes the buzzing crescendo and the conductor in his head urge the band to _give me more! Give me more!_

 _More! More! More!_ He had been greedy, always asking for things that couldn’t be given to him. New clothes instead of hand me downs. I love you’s instead of rough hands and freezer fucks. Like a greedy child on Christmas morning,

Christmas meant green and red blinking against the night and the cold. This city lights up with rainbows at night. Alive and bouncing off his reflection. He doesn’t recognize the boy in the mirror anymore. Dark eyes. Broken mouth.

_Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the saddest of them all?_

Pinks and reds and yellows and blues. A different color every time his feet touch the pavement. He has to keep running. Chase after the lights blinking and blurry. _Is he crying?_ No. He’s tired. No. It’s frozen eyelashes. And maybe some of those pills he took earlier. The pills don’t stop the buzzing. They make the lights brighter instead.

Follow the red. Follow the blue. Follow the yellow.  Colors jumping from surface to surface, Ian can barely keep track. There was a song that Monica used to play on their old record player. Dancing in the living room, arms above her head, spinning around, and crooning along to _‘where you lead, I will follow.’_

 _‘Who were you following Mama? What game were you playing? Was it ever this bright?’_ He can feel the lights dance around his head. Their living room lights had danced around Monica’s head like a halo. Debbie’s chubby baby hands grasping up, _up, up, up!_ Ian can still see Monica’s ethereal reflection in Debbie’s tearful eyes. Blurry and beautiful.

It’s bright. It’s late. There’s a party. There’s a meeting. The address and room number are scribbled on a piece of paper – no napkin- in his pocket. The buzzing is louder now. It’s been there since he got to this city of blinking lights. Something shakes behind his eyes. Blue eyes blinking up at him. _Get the fuck on. Get the fuck off._

On. Off. On.

Before this, it had been state after state. Huddled in his cold sleeping bag. He forgot to pack his warmer sleeping bag. And his watch. _Tick tock, tick tock. Tick… Tick…Tick._ They taught him how to disable all kinds of bombs in ROTC. Hand grenades too. There had been timed drills. He had beaten the record once. 63 seconds.

 _Tick…tick…tick._ 63 days in the cold sleeping bag, in Chicago, with Monica, in her hideaway.  But there was no more dancing or singing, just unmoving and unblinking and stillness for most of the winter. A bear in hibernation. A sad, sad bear, with tear tracks down his face pooling against his neck. Warm and wet.

Somewhere between his sleepy breaths and heavy blinks, Monica had flitted away. Without goodbye. Again. Goodbyes had never been her strongest suit. And so, he flitted away too. He had always been the most like Monica anyways.

He’s been here for at least a season. Maybe two. It was warmer when he had crossed state lines.  But he forgot his watch. And his warmer sleeping bag. _What day was it yesterday? Maybe Monday. Today was Two-for-One dance Tuesdays. Or was that on Thursdays._ It’s somewhere between Monday and Thursday.  _Is it Sunday?_

Ian had shown up on a Sunday. The man in front of the abandoned building he had stayed in for a few weeks had told him so. He- the man- had held Bible up to the sky and shouted prophecies and self-affirming words. It had been a Sunday. A sunny Sunday. Sun shine. Star shine. Star bright. First star I see tonight.   _Jesus Christ, you wanna spread a blanket and look for shooting stars next?_ It had been hot and sweaty and Mickey’s eyes had blinked up at him like stars. Jesus Christ had been a super star.

But it’s cold now. And the lights are changing and he hasn’t stayed in that building for a while. Reds and greens and golds. There are flecks of it blinking against every crystal surface of this lobby. _How did he get here?_

 _‘Follow the lights, baby. They will always bring you home.’_ There was a game Monica used to play with just Ian when he was small, a twisted sort of hide-and-seek game. _‘Mama has to take four of these blue ones Ian, baby. And then the lights get super bright. Come find Mama’_

Her favorite hiding spot had been in the building next to the El, seven blocks away from home. Up the stairs, watch the nail on the fourth step. Push back the stained curtains. Turn right. Turn left. Look under the table next to the big window. _‘Come baby, look at the lights. You can almost see your room from here. Go home now Ian. I’ll watch you from here.’_

The ceiling is tall. And gold. Gold and tall. _Did Goldilocks ever have hair of gold?_ The ceiling is so tall. If he could grow a few more inches, his fingertips could touch the top. Maybe they can touch now. His arms are reaching, and stretching up like baby Debbie with her wide eyes and chubby arms. He can see his own ethereal reflection in her teary eyes…wait, his own eyes. His cheeks are wet. Is he still crying? No. It’s just eyelashes melting. _‘Mama, I don’t think I ever made it home.’_

“Gingersnap?” The voice is familiar and reminds him of something dark and sinister.

There he is. Ned. Lloyd. Dr. Lishman. Jimmy’s dad. Suave. Shiny. In a suit, hair slicked back. He smells of money. Dirty.

“Gingersnap? What are you doing here?” That voice again, cold ice slithering against his spine.

“Party.” He’s mumbling. Eyes gliding down. Something prattles in his brain. The voice reminds him of the time with Mickey in the alley, after his date with Ned, after Mickey had punched Ned. He should have taken the rough hands and freezer fucks and not been so greedy. He’s tired of the dirty, smooth hands.

“Me too. The guys and I just finished attending a conference. Heart reconstruction. Fascinating stuff. We thought we’d spend the rest of the weekend here relaxing. You should come up with me.”

“Um. I’ve got this party. Room…,” He’s fishing around in his pocket for that napkin. It’s there somewhere, along with a heart that needs reconstruction, “…Room 567.”

“That’s our room Ian. You coming up?” Ned’s eyes are dark, darker than his own reflection. And his hands are holding open the elevator. _When did he move?_

“I guess.” The lights are dimmer. Not blinking so quickly anymore. The room is even darker.

Ian tries to find the light. There’s a lamp in the corner, but someone has thrown a shirt over it and it makes the room look grey. _‘Mama, I can’t find the light.’_

There are bodies. Other boys just like him, chiselled chests and hairless legs, on the tables and against the men in suits. Lines of powder. Bags of pills. Bottles everywhere. Ian can’t find the light, but it looks like home just the same.

His shirt – too tight and too thin, is no longer on him. _Where did my pants go?_ He’s dancing against some older man. Ned’s across the room smiling. His pants are gone too. There’s a head in between Ned’s legs, bobbing rhythmically to music that isn’t playing. _Why is he dancing if there’s no music?_

Up. Down. Up. Down. On. Off. Is it on? Is it off? He can’t really tell anymore. It’s been too many days, too many minutes. What time is it? Blue blinking eyes. Follow the blue light.  Find your way home.

He didn’t know it was this kind of party. The last one he had been to, he had to shower for hours just to get the stench and the dirty and the feeling of cheap sex off. He doesn’t want to be at this kind of party. The dirty layer of skin only makes the buzzing louder and the lights dimmer. Someone puts something in his mouth, gets him to swallow. The liquid burns on the way down. _Was it the blue pill? The blue ones make the lights blink brighter._

He feels taller. Like he just took the mushroom that made Alice grow six feet tall. He wonders if he can touch the gold ceiling now.  He can hear Ned calling from behind him, but he’s running. What would he do with all of that gold?

He’s in the lobby again. The lights are just as bright and blinking as fast as before. People around him are stopping and staring. They’re jealous. He gets to touch the sky, while they have to stay there on the ground. The Queen of Hearts had been jealous too. He’s reaching and reaching. _Where did my pants go?_ He must have left them at the bar. _Did I run all the way here without my pants?_  He hears Ned call out to him again.

His t-shirt that’s too thin and too tight, is nearly skin-tight and his hands reach down to adjust it. Bare skin meets bare skin. _Where’s my shirt?_

The lobby is flickering golds and yellows and outside the window Ian can see pinks and blues and reds and greens. And they’re jumping from reflection to reflection, inviting him to follow. He’s running again. _‘Mama, where are you? Are you still hiding?’_

The lights are leaping faster now. Blurring and blending. It’s dizzying. Mickey had always made him feel dizzy. Like a hand had reached into his gut and squeezed. Every time he saw him. This time the hand is reaching into his chest and squeezing. He stops. He can look for his shirt in a minute. The hand is still in his chest. He can hear Ned call out again.

He needs to keep moving. Follow the lights. They’re spinning and pulsing from above him. He can hear Monica, in the club with all the men and their leering looks, _‘I’m sorry you’re hurting baby.’_ Her eyes had been blinking pinks and yellows and greens, wide and apologizing. Baby Debbie with ethereal lights in her teary eyes.

But these lights are different. They’re red and blue and spinning. It’s cold against his cheek. It reminds him of the popsicles Fiona used to buy for Independence Day.  Always so hot, sweat making clothes stick to the skin. It’s hot now. It pricks at his skin, makes it itch and crawl.

He’s always itching these days - itching to run, ever since that winter with Monica in his sleeping bag.  The bugs and the dirt itched and crawled at his skin. He can see a reflection of himself in the blurriness of Monica’s eyes. Pupils blown. Smile wide. Lights dance around her head like a halo.

_‘Mama, I don’t think I want to play this game anymore.’_

“Heart rate… Does anyone know who he is?” The voice above him is shouting numbers and questions, like a game of rapid fire. That’ll be one hundred-two-three –SOLD, to the man who’s lost his clothes. _Where did he leave his pants? And his too-tight-too-thin t-shirt?_ It was Fiona who had taught him how to pronounce his T’s.

“He’s with me.” Dark voice, no lights. Something sinister with a hint of guilt.

“Sir, do you know his name? Has he taken anything tonight?” _Has he taken anything tonight?_ Some of the blue ones. Some of the pink. And something that burned his throat on the way down.

The lights are fluorescent and blink white against his eyelids. His cheek is still cold. His hand had felt cold against the glass. _Take your hand off the glass._ Would he have been able to feel the heat of flesh through the glass anyways?

It smells sterile and the lights aren’t blinking anymore on the other side of his shut eyes. Just white lights and bleach smells. He can hear rubber squeak against linoleum.

“Ian…Ian…My name is Dr. Schulman. You’re at the New York Presbyterian Hospital. Do you know what happened to you?”

The blinking lights are gone. The buzzing is still there, louder maybe. The queen bee never does any of the work. It’s the worker bees that make all the noise. Today’s a busy day in the beehive.

“Ian? We called your sister. You were unconscious for a little while. You were on some pretty strong stuff.  Her number was written in your shoe.”

Fiona. Beautiful twelve-year old Fiona armed with a permanent marker and unwashed hair. This wasn’t their first time at the foster-care rodeo. _Never lose your shoes. I’ve written my number in your shoes. Call me ok? It’ll be ok._

It’ll be – he doesn’t have any money. _Will it be ok?_   _Where did his too-tight-too-thin t-shirt go?_

“…don’t…health insurance.” His voice isn’t his. It reminds him of the meth head who had spent the summer beneath the El. Voice scratchy and high.

“It’s ok Ian. Do you remember Dr. Lishman? He rode in the ambulance with you. He and I are old friends; I’m doing him a favor. I owe him for a crazy summer in Pittsburgh a few years ago.”

His laugh is warmer than Ned’s. Not as dark. Not as sinister. Maybe Ned hadn’t been that bad.

“Ian, we wanted you to speak with one of our psychiatrists. Dr. Lishman was concerned about a few things when you came in. Is this something you could do?”

“Fiona?”

The buzzing is still loud. He misses the lights. Lying here seems like a waste of time. _Tick tock. Tick tock._ He had forgot to pack his watch. He needs to run and find the blinking again. The doctor is still talking.

“…and she are arranging something. Apparently she used to date Dr. Lishman’s son.” _Did you know I used to date someone named Mickey?_ Like the Disney character, except there was never a Minnie.  And Mickey was never afraid to hold Minnie’s hand, never ran at the first sign of affection.

“I ran a five minute mile last summer, it was for ROTC.”

“Ian, did you hear anything I said?” Mickey had helped him train. Shot bullets instead of blanks, built a training course just for him, built it in just a day. Rome wasn’t built in day. But Mickey could have done it with just his bare hands. Mickey had never let him hold his hand.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Thanks” _It’ll be ok. Don’t lose your shoes._ He forgot his watch in Chicago, and other things too. It’s a long fall down the rabbit hole. _Tick tock._ No time for hello, or goodbye; there’s never time for goodbye. He had always been the most like Monica anyways.

_‘Mama, I think it’s your turn to seek.’_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written using only my own insight into BP. This is not supposed to be taken as a representation of what BP is like for everyone. It is simply my own interpretation of what might be going on in Ian's head from my own personal experiences.


	7. Here your love has been (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been in that moment, when Ian had turned his head and caught Mickey with his face upturned, eyes shut, and mouth curved into a blissed out smile- that the feeling rammed into his chest, leaving it heavy and full.

_(Eight Months Ago)_

_‘Name a time I’ve ever let you down.’_

Never.

The answer has always been never. And even now, Lip hasn’t let him down.

It had been Lip who had come down to New York after Ian had been in the hospital for three weeks.

It had been Lip who spoke with Ned. It had been Lip who had to thank him for identifying the bizarre nature of Ian’s actions, while refraining from punching him in the face. It had been Lip who had listened to the doctors, the one whose shoulders deflated when they had asked if anyone else in the family had experience with the disorder.

And it had been Lip who was livid when Ian refused to come back to Chicago with him.

_I can’t come back Lip. I can do this on my own. I just need a few days to straighten everything out.  I have a job…I bartend. I make good tips. I’m going to be fine. I can do this._

_Ian, taking your clothes off for old fuckers for money is not bartending._ He had been too tired to argue that he really had started off as a bartender.

Lip’s hair is in its characteristically dishevelled state, slightly greasy from going days unwashed. It’s standing in a million different angles from being pulled at, ninety-nine times by frustrated hands.

He reminds Ian of the troll dolls Carl used to light on fire. Slightly angrier and a little less brightly colored, but a troll doll nonetheless.

They are standing in the center of his shitty apartment that they had found together after Lip came to the realization that nothing he could say would convince Ian to change his mind and come back to Chicago.

It’s the only battle he’s won.

And the result doesn’t really feel like winning because Lip’s still angry and insisting on staying until he’s satisfied that Ian won’t go back to his gold shorts and too-tight t-shirts. There are pill bottles scattered throughout the apartment; on the night stand, in the kitchen, in the bathroom.

The sight alone, reminds him of Monica. _Mama, you were right. They get rid of the blinking and the blues._

It’s been a couple months since the hospital and the snow outside is starting to melt. It’s almost March, and Lip has to leave for school soon. But he’s been here, for the whole time, by Ian’s side, as if determined to _never let him down._  That was definitely an argument that Ian had lost.    

_“Lip, you have school, you don’t have to babysit me.”_

_“Actually, Ian, I kinda do. When you pass out in your fucking underwear in the middle of some fancy-as-fuck neighbourhood in the middle of winter, in a different fuckin’ state, tweaked out of your goddamn mind, just to have FUCKING NED- make sure you’re alright- it kind of becomes my responsibility. NED – really Ian?!  You’re breaking Fiona’s heart that she can’t afford to come up here and make sure you’re alright. You’re lucky Amanda bought my ticket.”_

_“Lucky?! Fuck you, Lip! Go back to school. I’ve been gone for nearly a year, I’ve been doing fine. I don’t need-“_

_“Doing fine Ian, really?! So squatting with Monica for three months in a fucking abandoned shack in the goddamn middle of winter is doing fine? How was that? Get some good quality mother-son time?”_

_“Fuck you. I can take care of myself-“_

_“Like hell you can Ian – “_

_“How the fuck did you find out-“_

_“It amazes me, even after all I’ve fucking done for you, that you still think none of us care about you.”_

_“No one came looking for me”_

_“Fuck you! No one came looking for you?!?  Fiona has the fucking morgue on speed dial; Debbie has the entire neighbourhood covered in fucking flyers. Carl and I visited every crack house we could find. How else do you think I found out about Monica?”_

_“I had to get away-“_

_“Bullshit, you had to get away. Screw you Ian. Get away from what? Even I stayed.”_

_“It had nothing to do with you- “_

_“Of course it didn’t. You didn’t even think about us when-“_

_“Yes I did! It was hard for me to leave-“_

_“BULLSHIT! YOU LEFT A FUCKING WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS!”_

_“I know.”_

_“You’ve missed Christmas twice, now.”_

_“I know.”_

_“So fuck you Ian. I’m staying until my co-op placement starts in March. And you’re going to fucking take your meds. And you’re going to find a fucking job where you’re not sucking geezers off for a living. Do you understand me?”_

“Ian. Do…you…un-der-staaaaand…me?” Lip is staring at him with an incredulous look on his face.

“Huh?” Ian wishes that he could somehow push a button that could bring back what they used to have, what they used to be. He wishes Lip would stop looking at him with probing eyes, trying to find the Monica in all of his actions.

“Fuck, Ian. I’m trying to teach you about your lease. I leave in four days”

“I get it. I was here when we got the place.”

“Ya, and you were high as fuck.”

“Fuck off. I get it.”

He’s looking at Ian with a mix of pity and frustration. The cocktail of unspoken words leaves Ian feeling sick.

“I can take care of myself Lip.”

“I’d by inclined to believe that if you didn’t make it a habit of choosing the worst people to stick your dick into. Seriously, Ian, you really know how to pick ‘em.”

“Says the guy who was in love with a skank who fucked Frank.” Ian smiles inwardly at the inadvertent  rhyme.

“Not the same thing.”

“Sorry, right, yours is definitely worse.”

“Fuck, Ian.” Lip’s given up standing, and has collapsed onto the sofa. He looks resigned and tired, and Ian wonders if after all of this, they’ll still be able to talk the way that they used to. He wonders if it’s possible for them to drift to a place where neither of them recognizes the other anymore.

He wonders if they’ve already made it to that place.  

The thought tightens the knot in his stomach and a sudden desperation to hold onto his big brother courses through him.

“Look. Lip, I can do this. You have to believe me. I can do this.” Lip’s looking up at him, and Ian hopes he can see _I’m sorry_ and _I love you guys_ behind his foggy eyes.

Because he does, love his family. He misses them too. But, it’s like he knows that he was meant for a life bigger than the Southside, and he’s been away far too long to want to go back.

But mostly, he knows he’s not ready to face a certain pair of blue eyes that caused him to leave Chicago in the first place.

 

* * *

 

_(Present Day)_

Ian can pinpoint the exact moment when he knew he liked boys. It had been before Liam was born, in an alley looking for Monica who had decided to spend away their weekly grocery money on more pills.

_Baby, mama just needs a little help seeing the lights._

He supposes he finds the moment so easy to remember because Lip had been so angry at Monica and it had taken all of his concentration just to focus on the words he was saying, and to nod along at the socially-accepted times, humming in false agreement.

It really hadn’t been easy to listen to Lip yell using a vocabulary that was albeit impressive for a twelve-year old. It hadn’t been easy when all he had really wanted to do was stare at a pair of men pressed into each other against the wall near a bar door.

It was the first time that he had seen anything in any kind of romantic capacity that interested him in the slightest. None of the Disney shit that Fiona put on after school had ever provoked this kind of feeling before.

And while he had always known that he was a little different from Lip, it wasn't until that moment, seeing two men pressed up against each other, rutting in a way that looked borderline painful, that he knew _why_ he was a little different.

It was in that moment, that he finally understood why he never cared or had the slightest desire to see what was under Karen Jackson’s mini skirt, even when the entire grade of boys wouldn’t stop talking about what she had shown them in the bathroom.

And while this new found knowledge that gave him a sexual confidence in his teens, he never realized that no matter how many experimental trysts he would have with boys over the years, understanding sex would never be the same as understanding love.

Because just as certain as he could pinpoint the moment he first knew he liked boys, he could also pinpoint the moment when he first knew he was in love.

The moment had hit him like a truck and although Ian didn’t actually know of the piercing pain that came when a human body collided with a moving vehicle, he had been positive that the tightness in his chest and lightness in his head bared a striking resemblance to the after effects of a head on collision– so positive that he was willing to swap battle stories with fellow car crash victims.

It had been summer, and late at night. The fireflies had buzzed around, as if relieved that the heat had finally broke. They had been sprawled in the middle of the baseball field, underneath the spray of the sprinklers, trying to wash off the sticky sweat and come from earlier.

It had been in that moment, when Ian had turned his head and caught Mickey with his face upturned, eyes shut, and mouth curved into a blissed out smile- that the feeling rammed into his chest, leaving it heavy and full.

It had been years since he felt that feeling. It had been years until earlier that evening, with Mandy at her celebratory dinner. It had been years until earlier that evening, when he saw a pair of blue eyes from across the bar that could only belong to one person.

It’s been nearly five hours since the bar, and he still can’t shake the feeling. And it astounds him that he was even able to produce any noise, let alone a full sentence. ‘ _It was good to see you again Mick.’_

It really had been.

Mickey had been outside and shivering and quickly inhaling through all of his cigarettes. And it had taken all of Ian’s self-control not to run to him and bury his nose into Mickey’s skin.

He had spotted Mickey when they had first walked into the bar. He had been cursing out some girl who had thrown up on him; his eyebrows high, arms miming out sure threats.

From where he (and James) and Mandy stood, Ian hadn’t been able to see all of Mickey’s face. But the jet black hair and expressive limbs had been so characteristically Mickey; he could feel all of the air rush out of his lungs and his diaphragm spasm and forget how to relax.

And only when the band was almost done their set, did Ian finally convince himself to find Mickey. He hadn’t known what he would say or how he would say it – but instead rushed to the door where he had seen Mickey exit last.

And even when he saw Mickey, futilely try to keep warm by sucking copious amounts carcinogens into his lungs, he hadn’t known what to say.

Without thought, his hand had reached into his pocket to pull out the cigarette Mandy had given him earlier while his feet pulled him towards Mickey until his hand and the cigarette were both within Micky’s line of sight.

And when Mickey barely looked up to acknowledge his presence, Ian could feel himself grow anxious in the silence that sat between the two of them. Forcing himself to keep his eyes trained forward, his mind was a pile of crumpled notes and scrap of paper, all of them reading _Hey Mickey. What’ve you been up to? Why are you in New York? When did you get here? Did you ever wonder where I'd gone? I missed you. I think I might still love you._

He had been in the middle of composing his eighth attempt at a conversation starter, when the band stopped playing, their moment ended and his name was called out. It had probably been James, but Ian had been so preoccupied with the notion that Mickey now had to know who was standing beside him to really pay any attention to who was trying to get his attention.

And before he could edit, or revise or think too hard about what he was about to say, his tongue curled around the consonants and vowels and folded them together like paper birds that flew out of his mouth without second thought.

_It was good to see you again, Mick._

Saying his name then had been better than the velvet and the sin and Mickey’s unexpected response, which caused his blue eyes to snap up and meet Ian’s, caused his heart to race.

Normally, the feeling would have been welcomed by Ian. But it’s been five hours since the bar, and his heart is still racing and the joint James gave him earlier in the night is doing nothing to calm him down.

Ian thinks he should start to seriously worry about his health, if it doesn’t return to normal in the next hour.

He’s lying at the foot of the bed, with his legs stretched over the end, and his back curved at an angle that would make chiropractors everywhere cringe. He’s staring at his well-studied ceiling, while James flitters around the room. And his heart is still running a race that no one else seems to be participating in.

Something is being said, about the weekend, about the anniversary he promised to attend, and all Ian can do is count the cracks and replay his newly acquired memory of Mickey.

He can still see Mickey’s face – scared and unsure, full of hurt and confusion and loneliness. And while it’s possible that all of the feelings he saw scatter across Mickey’s face are merely projections of his own feelings, he knows the conversation he’s been waiting to have with James needs to happen soon. Preferably soon. And by soon, he means now.

He doesn’t really know where to start, doesn’t really know how to tell James about Mickey. How do you tell someone they were just a stand in for the person who can make your heart beat stop and then start again?

“I can’t make it out to your parents’ thing this weekend.” Ian can see James’ head whip around to look at him.

“What do you mean you can’t make it?”

“Something came up.” _‘I saw the face of my favorite memory’_

“What do you mean something came up? You’ve known about this for three weeks Ian.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t make it. I think maybe we need to- “

“No.” There is shift in tone. And it’s like James knows where the conversation is heading.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” Ian is yet to lift his body up from his position at the end of the bed. His heart is still racing, and he can feel himself reeling for a fight.

“I do, Ian. You’re not allowed to be the one that does that to me.”

“Oookay…” He can already hear Mandy’s _I told you so_ in his head, and he’s starting to dread telling her about this in the morning more than he is to have this conversation.

“You hardly put yourself into this relationship Ian. I’m the one who always put in any kind of effort. You can’t be the one who ends things.”

“Ok.” He’s lifted his head to look at James, who is pacing a hole into his bedroom floor. This perfect man, is starting to show his cracks and Ian doesn’t find them nearly as endearing as he first thought they would be.

“It’s like you’re waiting for something better to come along. Well, guess what?! I’m as good as it gets Ian. I didn’t listen to my friends when they told me you were too eclectic and crazy to date. Looks like I should have-”

“I am.” Ian has to stop him. Because this is it – his out, his exit, his great escape.

“You what?” James has stopped pacing to look at him.

“I was waiting for someone. I-I think saw him tonight. He is- we have – I think we should stop seeing each other.” It’s brief. It’s succinct. It’s to the point. And Ian is pretty sure he can see the wound it makes.

It’s only when James finally leaves, that Ian feels an unadulterated amount of joy course through his veins, that’s only reinforced when he sees a familiar head of jet black hair and angry shoulders climb up the stairs to the apartment James just exited.

And suddenly the pulse that Ian had managed to normalize is once again erratic and frozen.

_I followed the lights mama; I think I found my way home._


	8. It's definitely lava, why don't you carry other names?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ian?" The eyes in front of him are wide in surprise, eyelids shuttering open-close-open-close. They remind Ian of the blinking blue lights he used to chase.

It takes him longer than he imagined.

His landlord had insisted that no one by the name of Mickey Milkovich resided in his apartment. _Even if there was, I’m obligated to keep all of my tenants’ information private. You should know Ian, you signed the agreement too._

Uncooperative prick.

But he was so desperate for another glimpse of dark hair and blue eyes, that he spent the last few weeks creepily stalking the outside of his apartment building and feverishly studying the tenants' emergency contact list. And still he came up empty handed.

Ian was beginning to wonder if he had really seen Mickey that night, or if the entire thing had really just been another wishful projection.

The thought of Mickey living so close to him has caused him to go a little senseless, and it’s not long before even Mandy notices the change in behavior.

It’s a Tuesday and it’s so early in the morning that the morning fog still filters light into a hazy hue.  They both start work at the same time; her at the diner, him at the café a few blocks down. He’s been sitting on the floor of the kitchen waiting for her to get ready for the last twenty minutes.

It’s been so long since Two-For-One dance Tuesdays and his old life as a bartender, but Ian can feel himself get reminiscent about who he used to be, before the pills and the dancing - before Terry and the Russian.

He wishes he had a way to get back to that time in the dugout, under the hot August moon. He can still feel the beer and Mickey’s gaze drip down his chin.   

The feeling of the memory alone is almost as intoxicating as shot-gunning the beer had been.

“Hey Ian, is everything ok?” Mandy’s pulling on her diner uniform on in the middle of the living room, bringing his focus back to the present.

He doesn’t quite know how to put it into words. It’s not like he can just come out and say it, _hey Mandy. Guess what? Remember when we went out to celebrate your promotion? Well, guess who I ran into? Yup. Your brother. And oh, by the way, still love him. Like crazy._

Because crazy, was exactly what the entire situation was.

“Everything’s fine Mandy, just feeling…you know,” He hopes she can fill in the blanks, because he certainly can’t, “I think I’m just going to wait for you downstairs.”

And then he’s out the door before Mandy has time to respond. It’s still not quick enough for him to miss the look of worry that becomes etched onto her forehead.

It’s a warranted response from Mandy, but Ian knows the next words to come out of her mouth will include _medication_ and _do you remember last time._

And hearing about the one time when he had let the blinking lights and blues back in, is not something he particularly wants to hear about this early in the morning.

It had been back when Mandy had first started staying with him. It was the combination of seeing Mandy’s face every day and knowing that Mickey had left Chicago months before Mandy had, that left him desperate to be the fifteen year-old boy who had thought he could threaten _a Milkovich_ with a tire iron. 

It had been one time. The one time, when he was anchored by an acute awareness that Mickey was still out in the universe somewhere, breathing in the same air as Ian, cursing at the same sun, when it shone too brightly in their eyes in the morning.

He had just wanted to go back to the way it was.

And he had been feeling better – he really had. There were no more racing thoughts, no more sleep-filled days. He had been closer to the middle of the person that he was supposed to be, that he thought he could do without the pills, thought that he was strong enough to keep the cracks in his mind from breaking past his eyes. 

It had been one time.

It had been one time that ended with him in bed for days. One time that ended with Mandy hovering outside his door, whispering _I tried to get him to eat earlier_ and updates alike, to Lip on the phone.

It had been one time. And this is not that time.

This is Ian trying to remember why it was that he left Mickey in the first place. Because Mickey couldn’t say he loved him? Because he had wanted Mickey to be free? Because he couldn’t see that Mickey was hurting? Because it hurt him that Mickey was trying to protect him?

All of the options he has taste lame and covers him in a regret-drenched heaviness.

And it’s as if the universe is playing some twisted, twisted game, because as he rounds the last set of stairs to the entrance of his apartment, there’s someone in front of the mailboxes, ungracefully trying to balance what looks like a month’s worth of mail in his hands.

He’s got a head full of jet black hair, and angry, hunched over shoulders. And he’s closing his mailbox and out the front door before Ian’s feet touch the bottom of the stairs.

Ian barely has time to breathe in his next breath, before his damn heart starts palpitating again. Mickey Milkovich had always been a hazard to his health.

 

* * *

 

He spends the rest of his day trying to script out their next encounter. It always starts out, _hey Mickey. How’ve you been?_ and ends in incomplete thoughts and rambling. Because there are words hidden behind the generic greeting he’s composed, words like _I’m sorry I left. I’m not the same Ian you knew then. Could you still love this version of me?_

He doesn’t get very far with composing a conversation, as his thoughts become peppered with interruptions of _I asked for no foam and room!?_ and _This is NOT the long-pour Americano I ordered!_

So when his day finally ends, and he finds himself walking up the stairs past his own floor to the floor where, he knows from his glance at the mailbox that morning, Mickey resides, he still doesn’t know what he’s going to say.

**504.**

The number on the door stares back at him lifeless, and silently challenging Ian to make his move. He raises his arm up, then down, then up again, then down again.

Before he can raise his arm back up to knock on the door, it swings open, and all he can see is blue. He swears he can see them say, _Welcome home, Ian._

“Ian?” The eyes in front of him are wide in surprise, eyelids shuttering _open, close, open, close_. They remind Ian of the blinking blue lights he used to chase.

“Hey Mick, I forgot my key, and Mandy’s not home yet, and I’m sorry if I woke you, but I just, I was just – I saw you – look it doesn’t really matter how I found you, I just – “ _Fuck_. He hasn’t rambled like this in a long time. This is why he needed that script.

“Ian?” His eyes are still blinking blue. The surprise on his face evident and it’s like Mickey isn’t sure if he’s looking at a real person or not. Ian wants to hug him. He stops himself.

One act of idiocy a day is enough.

“Hi Mickey.” _Please never close those pretty blue eyes._

“Ian? What the fuck are you doing here man?”

“I just forgot- I’m locked out of my apartment.”

Silence. Mickey’s staring up at him, still and with a mix of fear and fascination painting his features.

Forging ahead with his non-existent script, “Well, I was hoping-“

“Ian?” Mickey’s eyebrows are still unbelieving and the look on his face is that of a child’s. Ian can feel his hands curl into fists as he silences their desire to wrap themselves around the shorter man.

“Yes?”

“Ian Gallagher?”

“Mick? Are you alright?” Mickey’s looking pale and not in the strikingly handsome way he normally does.

It’s more of a sickly, sweaty, pale mess, and Ian is sure this is the first time in their history that he’s ever rendered Mickey this speechless.

“Mick? Can I come in?” Mickey’s yet to blink, and Ian can almost hear the incredulous disbelief with each exhale Mickey takes.

“Uh huh…” Mickey’s frozen in the threshold of the door, and Ian has to walk forward until he can taste the beer and smoke on Mickey’s breath before Mickey takes a step back into the apartment.

It’s not until he’s in the kitchen nursing a beer, staring at Ian with disbelieving eyes, that Mickey’s color returns and he’s able to twine together coherent thoughts into sentences.

“Ian. What the fuck are you doing here?” Ian can feel his breath catch. The sound of his name leaving Mickey’s lips is an indescribable feeling that he’s trying so hard to capture in tiny mason jars like fluttering fireflies in the summer.

But the sound dissipates so quickly, that he doesn’t even have time to open the jar.

“I live one floor down, and I forgot my key. And Mandy’s not home yet.” It’s a bad game of Two Truths and A Lie, but it’s the only thing he can think of that will keep Mickey talking.

“What the fuck are you talking about Gallagher?”

“Well… I forgot my key and I-“

“No- fuck, I heard that part. What do mean Mandy’s not home yet?”

“I live with Mandy, one floor down…”

“Mandy’s here?!” Mickey’s face is no longer one of disbelief as his shoulders sink in relief at the news and Ian’s pretty sure he’s missed a piece to the puzzle somewhere in the conversation.

“Um. Yes…?”

“Is she ok?”

“Um, yes…?” Ian’s not very impressed with the direction this conversation is going.

“How long has she been with you?”

“Mick, what are you talking about? You can just come and talk to her yourself when she gets home.”

“No, Ian. Just…I need to know.”

It’s the first time he’s ever heard Mickey sound so desperate for something. The sound is jarring with the image of the rough edged Mickey he has in his head. _Maybe, I’m not the only one who’s no longer the same._

“Um, like eight months…since March, I think.” He can see Mickey doing math in his head, calculating months and days and minutes that Ian has no memory of.

“Ok.”

“Ok? Can I – “

“Wait. You live in my building?”

“Jesus, Mickey…”

“How tha’ fuck did you find my apartment?”

“Um…” Ian’s not really too sure how much crazy he wants to disclose to Mickey, “I saw you at your mailbox this morning.”

“Oh. I didn’t see you.”

“Yea, you left before I could say anything.”

“Right.”

Mickey’s leaning against the counter, and by the look on his face, Ian knows there are questions he wants to ask, but instead he says, “I saw someone who looked like you a few weeks ago. There was a show at The Toad. I swear I gave you a light.”

Mickey’s biting his lip and glaring at the floor and Ian can see him trying so hard to keep his show of bravado on.

The grin that Ian can feel spread on his face is involuntary and he can’t help but stifle a laugh when Mickey shoots him a glare.

_And then, maybe there are some things that never change._

“Ha, you looked like you were having a rough night.”

“Fuck off. You get vomited on after standing out in the cold and then you tell me you wouldn’t have a bad night.”

“Never said I wouldn’t…” Ian can feel a familiar banter reintroduce itself into the space between them. The feeling is comfortable and warm and he can feel himself brace for the cold water that is bound to jolt him out of this real-life daydream.

“Um, you said you were locked out?” Mickey’s eyes are arched and high and questioning. 

“Uh, yeah…I thought- do you have the super’s number. I’m sure he has a spare key to let me into my apartment with.”

It’s a lie. It’s a lie that sits heavy in his pocket, metal and jagged and not actually forgotten.

“Um, yea, sure… it should be here somewhere…”

And as Mickey goes off to look for the number, Ian’s left alone in the middle of the room, face to face with a door that he instinctively knows leads to Mickey’s bedroom.

The door is barely closed and he can’t help but look in. The indescribable need to know where Mickey sleeps at night gnaws at the base of his spine.

The room is dark and the blinds are closed, but the space is so small that it doesn’t take his eyes long to adjust to the lack of light and zone in on the corner where a small twin sized mattress is placed against the wall.

It’s not the lack of space, or furniture that draws Ian’s eyes to the bed, but the pile of pillows against the wall. There is an indentation at the very edge of the mattress in the shape of a body and something in Ian’s chest twists imperceptibly at the knowledge that it is Mickey’s body that sleeps in that hollow night after night.

He somehow fights the urge to lie down and curve himself around the shadow of a body whose heady scent he knows, stains the sheets.

“Hey Mick?” He makes his way back out to the main room, where Mickey is still in the kitchen.

“Hrmph?” Mickey grunts out a response as he fusses around with the piles of paper and mail on his counter in search for the super’s number. 

“Got enough pillows eh?”

“Fuck off Gallagher. It helps me sleep.”

“Not having enough room on your bed helps you sleep?” Ian already knows the answer.

“The bed’s too big. Leave it alone Gallagher.”

“Mick… It’s been two years.” Ian’s voice has gone soft, and he can bet the look on his face is equally so. But there is something that tears at his gut, a knowing feeling.

And it makes him ache. _I can’t sleep without you too, Mick._

“I said leave it alone.”

“Mick, serious-“

“Ian”, Mickey has stopped sorting through the mess, “I’m serious, let it go.”

There’s a quiet undertone of gentleness in Mickey’s voice that stops Ian from pressing further. But the image of Mickey sleeping, tense and scared – as though afraid to take up any more space than necessary flashes through his mind and keeps him rooted in place.

It’s a confusing image. Because Mickey, had never been afraid, had always talked a big game. It was a characteristic that was so inherently Mickey, existing even when they were little leaguers, with Mickey pissing on first base because they wouldn’t let him play.

“Sorry.” It comes out as a whisper, and Ian wants to follow the word with so many more. _I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry._

“Whatever, man. Look I can’t find that number. You can just stay here until Mandy gets home.”

“Uh, she worked a double today. She doesn’t get off until eight.”

“Ok.”

"So, I can stay?" 

"That's what I said, isn't it?" 

 

* * *

 

It’s nearly dark and the tiny lamp on the floor and light bulb in the kitchen are doing a piss poor job at lighting the room. There was a time, not too long ago, when the lack of blinking and brightness would have scratched at his mind.

But, here with Mickey less than a foot away from him, Ian doesn’t really mind. The dark gives him more of a reason to stand closer to Mickey. Ian swears he can see blinking blue beneath Mickey’s eyelids. 

He feels bad for the guy – Mick looks so uncomfortable and unsure, he’s offered Ian a beer for the sixth time in the last hour, gets up each time to go the fridge before coming back to the counter empty handed.

Ian’s leaning against the sink that runs adjacent to the counter that Mickey has claimed as his seat. His feet dangle far above the ground, and Ian can’t help a smirk lift the corners of his mouth. The kitchen is a small room and Ian knows if he shifts his arms two inches to the left, skin will graze skin.

Mickey’s staring at an invisible spot on the ground and Ian is staring at his lips.

He wants to free them from the death grip Mickey’s teeth currently have them in, when his body acts before his brain has time to sort out the files and send out commands and he’s pushing himself off the counter and standing in the space between Mickey’s knees.

Just the act of standing in the breadth of Mickey’s breath is enough for Ian.

They’re so close and Ian can smell the remnants of the beer Mickey had earlier. There’s so much he wants to do, wants to know. _Do you still taste the same? How much closer can I stand to you before you run away?_

But mostly he wants to laugh, because Mickey’s eyes are moving so quickly, and refusing to focus and it reminds Ian of the dolls Debbie used to have as a baby, whose eyes would never just land in one place.

The idea of a laugh dies quickly in the space between them, because Mickey’s brows are furrowed in a way Ian’s never really seen before, and there’s a new kind of nervousness that is thrumming in the air.

It’s full of fear and sweat and racing heartbeats and Ian doesn’t understand what could possibly be scaring Mickey. Ian’s debating ignoring the uneasiness and simply freeing the lips from the grip of Mickey’s teeth, before they begin to draw blood.

But the anxious boy in front of him is a facet of Mickey Ian is certain he’s never met before, and Ian can see that this boy has been hurt in ways he doesn’t know how to kiss better.

And so while his whole body is protesting wildly, he’s backing away and releasing the grip his hands have formed on the hem of Mickey’s worn out shirt. He’s about to step back to his original position against the sink, when Mickey’s eyes finally snap up and focus on his.

It’s a blue and green collision and Ian sees a kaleidoscope of confusion and objection in Mickey’s eyes. And before Ian knows what is happening, he is being shoved against the counter and a rough kiss is being forced against his lips.

It’s more teeth than lips and Mickey is unrelenting in his assault against Ian’s lips. It’s faster than rushed and heart achingly desperate and it reminds Ian of the summers when Lip used to hold him under water to see how long he could go before needing to breathe.

He had never been very good at that game.

“Hey, hey…Mick,” he’s pulling away and nuzzling the side of Mickey’s face desperate to keep parts of them touching, as if another few minutes apart could change the entire course of their story.

But Mickey has other plans. His body responds to Ian’s touch without being prompted, like it _needs_ more than just their cheeks to be touching.

_None of this Bambi bullshit._

His lips follow Ian’s without thought, and the groan of protest that escapes from Mickey’s lips, as Ian continues to deny him, is making him seriously rethink the necessity of oxygen to the human body and its ability to function.

“Mick…Mick, wait,” Ian’s trying to catch his breath between the kisses that Mickey keeps pressing against his skin. It’s better than any dream Ian’s had in the last two years combined.

_I have to tell you about the pills. And the blinking lights._

“This fucking better be good, Ian.” Mickey’s growling at an octave that causes Ian’s mind to blank, and his hands to push Mickey towards the couch in the center of the room.

And as Mickey settles onto his lap, Ian can feel his heart burst and bend and fall back into its orbit around Mickey and his blue eyes and angry shoulders.

Mickey’s tongue is relentless as it chases newly formed bite marks along Ian’s neck left behind by his teeth. All Ian can see is blue eyes and knows he looks like an idiot kissing Mickey with his eyes open but he can’t seem to reason with himself to close them.

He’s about to lift Mickey’s shirt above his head, when he feels scars, welted and twisted into the skin of Mickey’s back. And then it’s Mickey’s sharp intake of breath and every muscle in his body tensing, and Ian is trying to frantically stop his fingers from tracing over the warped skin.

But there is so much time between them, and so many memories each of them have that don’t include the other, that Ian is desperate to know about this one.

He’s about to ask the question, when he feels Mickey’s wet breath mumbling against his skin, “Why did you leave?”

It’s the most silent either of them has ever been.


	9. I'm a known coward in a coward's wind

Kissing Ian is breathlessness and free-falling and euphoria bottled into a small flask labelled _addiction._

Mickey can feel himself pressing and frenzied, and he knows he’s kissing Ian rougher than is probably necessary. But, he’s been in an Ianless drought for years, and he’s afraid that if he doesn’t chase the taste fast enough, he’ll be bound to an eternity of tasting only memories of Ian.  

They’re on the couch and it remains a mystery, how he’s managed to push Ian into the middle of the room, and onto the torn furniture.  

Long fingers, gripping and hot, are tearing at the hem of his t-shirt, and lifting, and lifting and –

And in his euphoric, addiction induced haze, Mickey can hear a small part at the back of his brain shout, _Stop! Stop! Stop!_

But, it’s like every single skin cell that touches Ian, becomes engulfed in flames, and all Mickey knows for certain is that if this is what burning in hell feels like, he wants every part of it.

He can feel the cold apartment air rush against his skin, as his t-shirt lifts up and goose bumps start to paint and scatter puzzles across his back. And then, it’s Ian’s fingers stilling against the base of his neck.  

_One…two…three…_

The fingers, no longer gripping, no longer hot, begin tracing scars of twisted skin and unspoken horrors, asking questions, written out like braille across dead nerves, _what happened to you? Who hurt you? What did they do?_

Each new scar counted, brings another roaring silent question with it. _How many of these are there?!_

Mickey has to stop the questions before they come.

“Why did you leave?”

The question leaves his lips quietly and stumbles into the darkness of the apartment, where it stretches in the space until it is no longer just air and clothing that separate them, but mounds of unspoken words stacked sky high.

Ian’s fingers still, once again, at the question, and Mickey knows that the secrets he buried years ago, are safe for at least one more day.

It’s minutes before he hears Ian speak.

“I don’t know, Mick. It was – I just – I had to leave.” Ian’s voice is mumbling and quiet and his nose is pressed hard into Mickey’s neck. The warmth of Ian’s breath on his skin disappearing, as Mickey pulls his head back to meet Ian’s eyes, is almost enough for Mickey to stop the where the conversation is going.

Because he can see where this is going, and it’s like they’re both speeding down the freeway into an oncoming semi, and it’s too late for either of them to stop it.

“Fuck off- you had to leave. Give me a real answer. You just don’t skip town after what we – you can’t possibly expect me to take that as your answer.” The metaphorical space that existed between them a few minutes ago is now a reality, as limbs become untangled and bodies shift until they are both on opposite sides of the couch.

Ian’s eyes are hard to see in the muted light, but Mickey knows Ian well enough to know that they are focused intensely on his face, Ian’s own face blank, as if calculating the thousand ways the conversation could go. It had always been Ian who had better had poker.

“I’m telling the truth Mickey. After what happened to us – to you, I couldn’t – I just had to – “

“You better not be fuckin’ saying what I think you’re trying to say.”

“Mick, you wouldn’t talk to me. You wouldn’t even look at me. I was – I wanted more from you – “

“Fuck off, you better have a fuckin’ better reason than that, Ian.”

“Jesus, Mickey.  I don’t know what else to say. You were a big part of it. But I guess, maybe it was bigger in my head than – I don’t know. My head was - fuck.” Ian’s run his hands through his hair, and the some of the longer pieces have escaped onto his forehead.

Mickey wonders if his urge to protect Ian has always been there, even at the start.  

 “Look, Mickey, some of the things you put me through was just amplified because of what was going on in my hea-“

“I can’t fucking believe what I’m hearing right now. What _I_ put you through? Do you seriously still live in a world where you believe it was smart for me to just blurt out every fuckin’ thing I felt?!”

“Fuck you Mick – no, I don’t still live in a world – I never lived in – I never asked you to for that. I just wanted you to tell me we were _together_ , and you wouldn’t even talk to me – I came by every fucking day and you wouldn’t even look at me –“

“Seriously Ian? That’s why you fucking left? Because I wouldn’t _look_ at you?! Are you fucking serious? My father would have killed you if he saw us talking after what he walked in on. What he did to us, you didn’t see the worst-“

“I didn’t SEE?! You never let me see any of you! Ever! Even before Terry. It was always, _maybe I shouldn’t do this, what if it makes Mickey uncomfortable, can’t hold his hand, he won’t talk to me if I try that shit._ I couldn’t do any of that stuff with you Mick-“

“DAMN RIGHT you couldn’t! Jesus Christ Ian, you and I apparently still live in two completely different worlds.”  

“No Mick. We just lived in the one where you were too fucking scared of how you felt about me.”

“No Ian. I was fucking scared of what would happen to you because of how I felt about you.”

“That’s the same fucking thing Mickey. You beat the shit out of me, because you couldn’t tell me you were gay. Or that you loved me.”

“Are you kidding me Ian? And how would you have acted if I said that shit – you would have thought we were fucking girlfriends and expected me to act like it.”

“You didn’t give me the chance to ask you to.” Ian’s quiet, and Mickey refuses to meet his gaze, knows that just a look from Ian has the power to break him again.

“And what did you think would happen if Terry saw us holding hands and eating a fucking picnic.”

“First, I never asked for either of those things. And second, I don’t know – but at least we could have figured it out together.”

“Right, after I dug a fucking grave for your body.”

“Fuck you Mick. You still can’t say it. Terry’s not here. And you still can’t say it, you’re a fucking puss-“

“Fuck off, Gallagher.”  The knot that had tied itself in his gut when he first saw Ian at the bar all those nights ago, is tightening until it is no longer recognizable; blending into the other flaws in the rope.

It’s the most scared Mickey has felt in a long time. Because the there are things that can no longer be undone, unknotted, untied. The rope can no longer be straightened out into the way it used to be.

They’ve progressed to standing now, and Ian’s leaning against the wall, running his hands through his hair.

Mickey wishes it were his fingers instead. Soft, soft hair, against his flawed, marked up fingers.

“Fuck. I don’t even know what I was expecting.” Ian sounds so defeated and Mickey lets in the dangerous thought of wondering if it would be all that bad if Ian knew about all that had happened.

Instinct and survival act fast on the thought though. _End this now. This ends now. This has to end now._

“I do, Ian.” He has so many words bubbling against his cheeks, but he swallows them down, and aims for the kill shot instead,” You were expecting me to see you, and forget about how it was you who left. You were expecting us to go back to when you were fifteen. You were expecting me to spread out that goddamn blanket.”

Silence.

“Guess some things never change then, hey Mick?”

“Guess not.”

“Still can’t admit to you, or to me that I’m more than just a warm mouth?”

“Still can’t get it into your head that that’s what you were.” _Please don’t believe me._ The words scald his tongue and leave their mark on the way out. The sharp aftertaste is hard to swallow down.

“Fuck.” Ian’s standing even closer to the door than before, and Mickey just wants to rewind and hit pause to earlier in the evening, before all of the words, before all the uncovering of old wounds.

“Probably best if you leave Gallagher.” _Rip off the band-aid, get it over with._

“For you, maybe…but I guess it’s always just been about you hasn’t it, Mick?” Mickey swears he can hear Ian’s voice break.  He gambles a look up, and he’s met with stoic coldness, and a blank space in Ian’s eyes that be filled with something warmer, something that used to scare Mickey.

“Guess so.”  

It’s silent again, a dead kind of silence that worms its way into the hollow of Mickey and squeezes. Everything suddenly feels too tight, and too bitter. _I take it back. I take it back._

But, Mickey already knows the shot has been made, and the look Ian is wearing is of someone who has bled out all over his kitchen floor.

Ian’s voice comes quiet and rushed into the dead space, “You should at least call Mandy. She’s worried about you.”

And with that, he’s scribbling a number down on a piece of paper on the counter, and is out of the door without another word.

Mickey’s lungs are burning, and as the door slams, he can feel his nerves scratch for air.

The rope from his internal game of tug-of-war shreds into his stomach, until all that is left is just a mass of blood and flesh, unrecognizably tangled and torn.

 _It was the right thing to do_.

“FUCK!” Even after all of this time, these seemingly right things to do don’t seem to hurt any less.

He wishes Ian could know, about all of his memories and all of the words that he swallowed down, but he’s weighed these options before, and the scale has always tipped in favor of Mickey letting Ian go.

It had been there from the start, covered in sweat and heat and the August sun, he had known even then that the taste of Ian would not stay permanent on his tongue. And suddenly the feeling of feeling not good enough for Ian is not a feeling anymore. It’s more of a statement, a law of nature.

_The sun always rises in the East and sets in the West._

_Ian deserves more than a wanted man._

He needs to leave town, find a new place, with a different identity. He supposes he should feel more relieved than sick that Ian had found him.

He was really getting too comfortable in this place anyways.

 

* * *

 

 

_One year ago_

He is flawed marble, but he is anything but weak.

He is perfectly plastered walls full of protective bullshit that cracks every time a door slams. And the pain of the black and purple spilled ink across his skin floods his system nearly as quickly as the memories from the night before.

Blood has formed a metallic crust around his eyes, and Mickey can’t help but curse the sunlight that insists on making it through to his eyes. His optic nerve is shooting darts into the back of his skull, and suddenly the discomfort of being fully conscious is overwhelming.

The memory is still foggy and the steps he managed to take to make it onto this Greyhound bus are lost into some dark and heavy fog.  Mickey can’t even be too sure where he’s going.

It doesn’t really matter anyways; none of it really matters anymore. It’s hard for Mickey to remember the last time he had the feeling of being a part of something bigger.

It’s been almost a ten months since Ian left, rather unceremoniously. He didn’t even know about it, until Mandy crashed into his room one night, drunk and crying. _I miss my best friend Mickey. He just left, like none of us were enough to keep him here._

He hasn’t spoken to Ian since that day with Terry, despite Ian’s anxious attempts to get Mickey to talk. He had come by for days after, with worry and something else that terrified Mickey, flooding his eyes. _‘Mick, we can fight this. We can do this, you and me. Together.’_

Together.

That thought alone had scared Mickey shitless.

It had scared Mickey shitless into a silent mute. Even when Ian grabbed at his arms, with wild and frantic eyes, Mickey stayed quiet. Pushed down the feelings, and listened to his father’s booming voice instead, _I didn’t raise pussies for sons. Milkovich men are not pussies._

And if there was one thing Mickey was taught, it was that only pussies let love bubble up and flood their systems. And Mickey Milkovich was no pussy.

He was, however, running.

A part of him wonders if it’s the right choice, leaving Mandy behind with the house of horrors and all of its memories. But he’s calculated all the possibilities, all of the infinite ways that this could play out, and this is the best solution he’s got. It’s honestly, the only solution he’s got.

The fog is slowly starting to lift, the further away from Chicago he gets. He had left quickly, he gathers. His shoes are barely on his feet, and his sweater is on crooked; the duffle bag under his seat is nearly empty, holding only Terry’s drug money, a box of cereal and a picture of Ian.

Ian’s flipping off the camera, and smirking and Mickey’s etched the photo into his eyes, that he’s not really sure why he bothered grabbing it in the first place.

He had swiped it from Mandy’s room. It had been a few months after Ian had left, that he noticed it, taped onto her wall beside her mirror. The familiarity of Ian’s face had stopped him and redirected his feet into Mandy’s room.

He had kept it hidden, under the fourth floorboard from his bed, taped to the board itself.  He knows that it’s probably unhealthy, and a little bit crazy, but even just seeing Ian’s face on paper anchors Mickey’s heart and steadies his mind, in a way that allows him to breathe through the uncertainty of where he was going, or what he was doing.

Mickey can see the fields and hills and towns pass as the bus speeds down the highway. It’s hard for him to distinguish whether the numbing pain in his face is from the bruises and the blood or from pressing his skin too hard into the cold surface.

Ian’s face had been so freckled and happy when he had seen Mickey through the glass. _Take your hand off the glass_. It’s one of those memories that had played on repeat during his nights in Juvie.

And even now, in the passing trees and rushing landscape, freckled skin and red hair melt into the scenery. But he’s still on the other side of the glass.

The loneliness is palpable and Mickey is afraid to blink, unsure of how many times he can replay the memory before it morphs into a blur of colors and muffled words and an aching emptiness.

_I’m running away, Ian. Are you still running too?_


	10. Turn around now, and count to ten, as you see me go now

_Eight Months Ago_

“Hey. It’s me.”

His voice is still an intoxicating mix of indifference and adoration and for a few seconds the pit of her stomach hollows out and all she can hear is an aggressively thundering beat insistent against her ears.

“Uh, hey.” She cringes at the way her voice cracks.

“Um, so, I heard about your dad. Sorry.” He sounds genuine, and it makes Mandy wish he wasn’t the boy who had snuck under her skin that summer and taken over the mechanics of her heart.

“Yea, I am too.” _There’s so much you don’t know anymore. There’s so much you never knew._

“I ran into Tony when I was back home a while ago, and he mentioned you were in some trouble. Everything ok?”

She freezes at the mention of Tony’s name, “Um…everything’s fine. Why?” _How much do you know?_

“Good. I… well, I kind of a favor.”

And there it is - the ulterior motive, the concealed weapon, the hidden agenda. It has never been about her.

With him, it has never been about her. With him, it has always been about something else, or someone else. None of this is news to her, none of this is new.

And yet, her heart still thuds excessively against her brittle bones and pale skin, from just a single note from the tenor.

“Um, ok.”

“I hate to ask – “

“Just get it over with Lip. What do you need from me?” Defenses up, protective shield activated. If there was one thing she knew, it was that the thick, protective layer of heady seduction and lewd promises she had wrapped generously around herself, had ended only in heartbreak and heartache.  

“It’s about Ian.”

Hearing his name feels alien against her ears. She hasn’t seen him in over a year. He's missed two Christmases, and she still has both of his presents wrapped up in old flyers, and stuffed in the bottom of her dresser.

“Is he ok?”

“He’s been better.”

“What do you need?” She can’t be sure if she really wants the answer, there’s a nagging pull at the bottom of her gut telling her that it has never ended well for her when Lip came around – and this could be no exception.

“I’m in New York with him right now, but I leave for school in a few weeks.”

“Oookay... what does that have to do with me?”

“He has an apartment here. It’s a shit-hole, but it has two bedrooms. You could have a place to stay, Tony was saying it would do you well if you moved out of your house.” There’s something hidden behind the words, a veiled secret, a whisper of concern. Mandy wonders how much he knows.

“Yea? Well, Tony says a lot of shit – “

“Look. Mandy, I really don’t know what happened. I just really – look I can’t be here for Ian, and he needs – I need someone to be here – for him.”

“Ian’s always been able to take care of himself Lip. Are you sure this isn’t just for you? He turned eighteen last year anyways. It sounds fine- “

“Do you remember that Thanksgiving with Monica?”

“Ya…”

“Ian has what Monica has.” _No._ It’s not possible. Ian, so sound and sure and supportive, could not be Monica. Mandy had not anticipated the day, when she would have to be the one taking care of Ian.

“Are you sure- “

“Fuck, Mandy. He was found high on uppers, in the middle of Chelsea, in the middle of winter without his clothes on.”

“Fuck.”

“Right. So can you do this for me or not?”

She nods, forgetting that he can’t see her over the phone. The motion’s futile, and so are any words that come afterwards. Both of them know that she had, even after all of this time,  agreed to his request the moment she had heard his voice on the other side of the static. 

Because it has never been about her anyways. 

* * *

 

_Present Day_

“FUCK!” She’s on the couch when Ian comes home, slamming the door with such a force that she can almost feel the walls of the apartment absorb the shock.

“Ian?” She doesn’t get a response, but is instead greeted with yet another slam of the door, as Ian barricades himself into his bedroom.

Curiosity gets the best of her, and she’s sneaking the door of Ian’s room open and peering in.

The room’s dark and she can barely make out the bundle of blankets in the corner of his bed. The image is terrifyingly similar to the one time Ian stopped taking his meds when she first came to live with him.

_‘Ian?’_

_‘Go away’_

His voice had been sleep ridden, and groggy and barely there. The reduction of the Ian she knew to a pile of bones and flesh was a frightening scene.

And because the Ian in front of her, curled up on his bed, is a carbon copy of that week six months ago, she’s already thinking of reaching for the phone and dialing the number she knows by heart. _Lip would know what to do._

“Ian, are you ok?”

“I’m fine Mandy. Just had a rough day.” His voice is clear, and not sleep ridden, and not groggy and she can't help but think that _maybe this isn’t a repeat_. But he’s curled into the smallest ball, and she doesn’t understand why someone so long-limbed would purposely fold their limbs into such an uncomfortable way, unless they were hiding from another hidden demon. 

“Ian…” She doesn’t want to ask the question. She had promised she never would again. And the trust between them has remained unbroken, until now. Because Mandy has only ever seen him this broken once before, and she has no choice but to ask, “Ian… did you stop taking your pills?”

His response is quiet and resigned, “Fuck Mandy. No. I took them today.”

“Ok…did you need to talk?”

She’s desperate to get her best friend back again. If she could fight every demon that plagued his mind, Mandy knows that she’d dive in head first, wielding only her bare hands as weapons and come out victorious.

She’d take down every single one of those motherfuckers.

But she can’t, because these aren’t monsters you can fight in the daylight. These are monsters she has to coax out with her voice and soothe with soft hands.

“It’s fine Mandy. I just – I just thought if he saw me- Fuck!”

“Who Ian? What happened?”

“Nothing. Forget it. I’m fine, I just need a day, I’ll be fine in the morning. Ok?”

“Ian, we can talk…if you want.”

He’s sitting up suddenly, and taking her hands in his, “Mandy, I’m fine. Don’t worry. I just had a really shitty day.”

And even though the room is dark, Mandy can see the whites and brights of his eyes. They’re clear and clean and not masked with an unrecognizable gleam.

She feels better knowing this isn’t a replay of that week from hell, but his eyes, while clean and clear, are still filled with tears and heartbreak that Mandy knows could only have been caused by one person.

_Mickey, what have you done?_

* * *

 

“Hey. It’s me.”

She doesn’t know how, or why or where he is, but in the moment he speaks those three words, she doesn’t even really care.

His voice is one she’s known from birth, one she hasn’t heard in nearly two years. It’s a mixture of rough insecurity and false bravado, and it reminds Mandy of the time when he had run home into her room after pissing on second base during his Little League game.

He had stood against the shut door, with wide eyes and shaking hands. His uniform had been dirtied and torn, but he had worn the biggest smile.

His blue eyes had sparkled as he re-told the story, embellishing certain parts and glossing over others. He had been shaking, and antsy, but his face had been the portrait of pride, his wide eyes the only indicator, that the boy in front of her, was in fact scared shitless. _You listen to me Mandy. Nobody fucks with a Milkovich and gets away with it. Nobody EVER tells a Milkovich no._

That was Mickey. Always making sure she knew how to be a Milkovich in a world of people who stared too hard and judged too quickly.

He had never, though, taught her what to do when the person who fucked with a Milkovich, was a Milkovich himself.

“Mickey?! Are you ok?”

“Hey Mandy. I’m fine. You? I heard you’re in New York now.” There is something so unbelievably soothing about the simple act of saying his name and hearing his voice in response.

“How did you hear – wait… where are you?”

“It doesn’t matt-“

“Oh, fuck off Mickey. It’s been over a year. Where the fuck are you?”

“New York.”

“What?! You’re here too – wait- did you see Ian yesterday?”

“Ya, he tell you?”

“No. But he’s been in bed all day. Came home pissed and went straight to bed. I thought he stopped taking his pills again, he’s been weird all week.”

“What pills?”

“Oh fuck. Forget it. This makes _a lot_ more sense.”

“What fuckin’ pills Mandy? Is Ian on drugs?” Mandy smiles at the concern Mickey is unable to keep out of his voice. _Maybe happy endings are possible after all._

“No, he’s fine Mickey. I think the more appropriate question to ask is; what did _you_ do to make him so upset?”

“Fuck off. What makes you think I did something?”

“Mickey. Please. I’ve known about the two of you since Ian left.”

“Bitch, I don’t know what you think you know-“

“Mick. I saw what Terry did to you.”

“What tha’ fuck are you talking about?” His voice is instantly in the defense, and she knows he’s already calculated all the different ways this conversation could go.

“I was home one of the nights when he thought I wasn’t.”

“Mandy, whatever you think you saw-“

“Mick. I _know_ what I saw. I also know you probably pushed Ian away because you’re afraid. I get it, I would be scared too – “

“Fuck Mandy. You really don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Mickey, this time I do. You should work things out with Ian.”

“Right. Have you been drinking his delusional cool-aid too? They’re looking for me Mandy. I can’t put Ian through that.”

“But, Mickey, that’s the thing, no one is looking for you. The case is closed.”

“What are you talking about? Of course they’re looking for me, my fingerprints are everywhere. I didn’t have time to clean anything up.”

“They’re not looking for you. The case is closed.” 

“Did they charge anyone?”

“No. You need to fix things with Ian.”

“Fuck Mandy, stay out of it, it’s none of your goddamn-“

“It’s every bit of my goddamn business. I live with him, and I hate living with an Ian who is sulking and whining all the fucking time. So fix it.”

“Bitch – “

“Mickey.”

“Fine.”

“Good. Come to my birthday party. It’s in three weeks. That should give you enough time to grow a pair, what do you think?”

“Fuuucck off.”

“Why? Do you need more time?”

“Jesus. I’m hanging up.”

“Wait, you going to call me again? You can’t just disappear like that again Mick.”

“I know. Yes, I’ll call. Or you can just come see me.”

“How Mick? I don’t even know where in New York you live.”

“I’m in the apartment above yours. Apartment 504. But, bitch, that’s not a fuckin’ open invitation for you to just stop by whenever you want.”

She’s out of the door before he even finishes his sentence.

 

 


	11. Well, I know now honey, I can't pretend

“Yeah? Well you can be a dickface sometimes.”  Mandy’s voice is holding back a laugh as she responds to the faceless voice on the other line.

She’s sitting on the couch – no lying on the couch – fuck. Ian has no idea how’s she’s contorted into the position she’s in, but her legs are where her head should be. He’s distracted by the hole that her heel has slipped into, to listen completely to the conversation she’s having; the polka dots on the fabric pales in comparison to the flesh-colored spot her heel makes,

 “Jesus. Well, you’re a fucking pussy – sorry – you’re a piece of shit. Better?” Ian can almost hear the eye roll. This character on the phone, whoever they are, has been a recent new fixture in Mandy’s life. They bring out something lighter and a smile in her that Ian hasn’t seen since Chicago.

It’s been a week of happy Mandy and Ian wonders if there’s a new boy in her life that she has yet to tell him about.

“Yeah, well if you’re just going to mope about it, you should just apologize and explain everything.”

“No assface, with your fucking words. Jesus. No wonder Ian gets so frustrated with you.” He can feel the blood in his veins freeze at the mention of his name. It’s tiny, sharp, cold daggers stabbing relentlessly and all he can hear is Mickey’s soft omission, _warm mouth, warm mouth_.

Funny, he doesn’t feel very warm, not now, and even not then, when the August heat had melted sweat across their skin.

“Just come over, and apologize. He’ll understand, I promise.”

“I really don’t think I will Mandy.” He hadn’t meant to say anything. And even as he’s saying the words, he’s trying to bundle them up and force them back into his mouth.

But, Mandy’s eyes are wide and peeking over the couch, and she’s rushing out her words all in one breath, “I’ve gotta go Mickey. I’ll see you next week. It’s my birthday. Just show up, if not for you, then for me.”

“What the fuck is going on Mandy?”

“Nothing Ian. I’m talking to my brother, which you so kindly didn’t inform me was living a floor above us. Dick move, Ian.”

“I gave him your number.” The conversation has taken a sharp turn; the two of them are rushing through winding, winding hills, and Ian’s sure he’s definitely _not_ the onein the driver seat.

“Yea, I figured, when he called after your fight. Would have been nice to have some warning.” “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyways.”

“Ha, fuck. Okay, Ian. Both of you are too stupid for your own good sometimes.” Mandy’s walking through kitchen, her head shaking, and the patch of her heel sticking to the linoleum on the floor every time her foot makes contact.

It reminds Ian of sticky skin and summer time sweat. And he’s feeling antsy and weary and ready to pick a fight, “How am I stupid for getting out of situation that clearly wasn’t going anywhere?”

“How are not stupid for waiting all of this time to see him again, only to not give him a chance to explain anything to you?”

“He didn’t really want to explain anything Mandy. Plus, there’s nothing to explain. He’s exactly the same person as he was back then.” 

“There’s always something to explain, Ian. You of all people should know that.” Her eyes are sad, and layered with secrets and memories that Ian knows she’s never talked about.

“What are you talking about Mandy?” Nope, he’s definitely not the one driving, and the cliff up ahead is speeding towards him, faster and faster and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“I’m saying, there’s more that happened than what you saw after you left.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw everything that was going to happen.” He can still see Mickey detangle his limbs from the girl beneath him.

And then Terry, with his gun still pointed at Mickey’s face, snarling liquor-ridden breath onto Ian’s face _, you stay the fuck away from my boy. Do you understand? I see you anywhere near this house or my son; I will do to you, what you just watched me do to him. Do you understand?_

“Right, but you left Ian. He let you leave.”

“Yea because he was done fucking the faggot out of Mickey.”

“Oh Ian,” She’s sitting him down and reaching over to touch her hands to his – there was a time once when she had told him that she thought their hands, mismatched as they were, fit in the most beautiful, broken way, “It didn’t stop after you left.”

“What are you talking about...?”

“Mickey. I’m talking about Mickey. “ Her eyes are aching and pained and she’s squeezing his hands, as if pressure alone could unlock all of the secrets she has folded up and buried with her hands, “You had only watched the beginning Ian.”

“Mands?”

“Dad had some fucked up friends in jail. But there was this one guy in particular, that dad always talked about, who ran some sort of camp that fucked the gay out of young teen boys. He had raped a bunch of the boys at the camp and dad was so impressed with this guy. Anyways, this guy got it into dad’s head that the only way to fuck the gay away was consistency.”

“What the fuck are you talking about Mandy…?” But, Ian knows he already knows, and there’s a vile taste that forms at the back of his mouth. The feeling is worse than the time at the hospital where his thoughts had leapt across the walls and laughed in his face, it’s even worse than the feeling of falling asleep without Mickey at night.

“I’m saying that what you saw was the first time. But it wasn’t the last.” Her hands are ice-cold and she’s not looking at Ian anymore, and it’s as though she is reliving the memory as she tells him, “I came home one night, a few months after you had left. I wasn’t supposed to come home that night when I did. I wish I had come home earlier.”

“What happened Mandy?”

“Dad was long gone, but Mickey was on the couch, naked and bruised.” Ian isn’t sure if he wants to hear the rest, “Ian, you should have seen his face. It was unrecognizable. No one else was home, and he was just sitting there. I have never seen his eyes so dead.”

Ian’s certain he doesn’t want to hear the story, but it’s like Mandy has been dying to tell this story for years, and the words come falling out of her mouth like sand between fingers.

“He could barely move, let alone stand, Ian. He just looked at me…” Mandy’s crying now, silent, quiet tears that streak her mascara leaving inkblot trails down her face.

“I didn’t know what had happened, or why he was naked. But I helped him dress and brought him to the washroom, and – his back Ian- god his back was full of scabs and scars and fresh wounds, like someone had been trying to brand him.”

“His back—“

“Ya, those scars. So I cleaned him up, and he didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at me. I just thought it was a drug run that had gone wrong. I didn’t even know what was going on until a few months later when Terry didn’t realize I was home, and – the thing is, I didn’t even realize it then.”

“Realize what?”

“What Terry was doing to him.”

_It’s dark and Mandy is high on nitrous and loneliness. Ian’s been gone for too long, and the picture of him that used to hang by her mirror is no longer there._

_Their goodbye had been too short. Ian had hugged her and promised to call, but it’s been months and she’s only gotten a few texts, telling her that he’s fine. Lip is gone too, to a fancy college, with fancy college girls. She bets he has a girlfriend now and wonders how likely it is that she’s named Mandy too._

_Girls like her, never got boys like him. But, she can remember a time when she had been close, so close to getting him. The ache swirls in with the colors in her room and she can see Ian’s blown pupils above her, and she’s back to the first time they had skipped class to get high together._

_The memory makes her miss him more._

_There’s a noise in the next room and it makes Mandy giggle, because Mickey has never brought a girl home and if there’s a sound that she knows well it’s the hush of a dress coming off._

_She’s being as quiet as she can, high, and sneaks a look in the crack between her door and the wall. The world is still swirling and dizzy but she can make out a brunette with a long face riding Mickey on the couch._

_There’s a swell of pride for her brother. He’s finally brought someone home. After Ian left, Mandy had started finding Mickey on the couched bruised and beaten, too concussed to keep his eyes open, but she knew they were sad._

_He had taken up drinking; empty bottles of Jack littered his bedroom floor and Mandy hadn’t been able to figure out what had hurt her brother so badly._

_But there’s this girl in their living room, riding down on Mickey’s lap. The darkness of her hair is a severe contrast to her pale, high cheekbones. She’s beautiful, in a broken way._

_And Mandy wonders, if she’s here to help Mickey stop being so sad._

_She’s about to close her door, when she sees Terry’s angry hands lock into fists. And suddenly the world isn’t so dizzy anymore. It’s clear and still and it’s a feeling of standing too close to the edge of a skyscraper._

_Mandy wishes someone would just push her, so she doesn’t have to watch this scene unfold in slow motion in front of her._

_Terry’s punching Mickey’s face, and Mandy thinks she can make out the shape of a pistol in one of his hands. The girl is still riding Mickey, and Mandy doesn’t really understand why the girl isn’t stopping._

_But then she climbs off of him, and Terry is grabbing at Mickey with angry hands until he is bent over the coach with his back in the air. And Mandy is ready to pull out the shot gun and march out into the living room, but what Terry does next makes her blood run cold._

_He’s grabbing the fire iron from the fireplace – had the fire been lit this whole time? And then he’s hitting Mickey with it; the end glowing and angry and –_

“Jesus. Mandy. Stop. That’s enough.” Ian’s pretty sure the imagined vile taste has turned into real vomit, and he runs over to the sink.

But nothing comes out.

It’s an empty dry choke that leaves him with the wish that he had vomited, just so he could taste something other than the guilt that was laden on his tongue.

“I’m sorry Ian. I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t know any of that. Fuck, fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.” He’s not so sure his brain has fully computed everything Mandy has just told him but – “Fuck Mickey. I – fuck.”

“Mmm?” Mandy’s eyes are still tear stained and her cheeks still resemble a twisted version of the Rorschach test, but the heaviness on her shoulders is gone, and Ian wonders just how long Mandy had been carrying that around for.

“We have to go see Mick. We have to go see him.”

“Ian, I don’t know if that’s such a good id-“

“No, Mandy, you don’t understand. I said some things, and he said some things, and I shouldn’t have said any of it. He was just trying to protect me – us. Fuck. Mandy, we need to go see him.”

“Ian, there are things he doesn’t know.”

“What are you talking about.”

“I mean, he doesn’t know that I know about everything. There are so many things I’ve kept secret.”

“And look how far that’s gotten us.”

“You should wait. Let him come to you. He’s going to apologize, I know he will. When he cares about something Ian, he…look, he misses you, he – fuck. Just let him come to you.”

“What if he never comes, Mandy?”

And instead of a comforting denial of the question, all Mandy does is shake her head, and smile softly before standing up and walking out of the room, the heel of her foot making the sound of summer sweat and Chicago.

* * *

It’s like watching water boil, or a toaster toast bread. The waiting is agonizing and disabling, and all Ian wants to do is run upstairs, force Mickey’s door open and tell him about everything. About the pills, about Monica, about leaving, about missing him into an ache that was whole and beating.

He wants to spread it all out like a picnic blanket, and invite Mickey to sit in a checkered patterned bubble of secrets with him.

But he doesn’t, he waits.

And waits.

Until it’s Friday and Mandy is in the middle of the living room, squeezing into a tight sequined dress, wearing a sash that reads BIRTHDAY GIRL.

And he’s changed his shirt at least three times.

The possibility of seeing Mickey again tonight, even after all the words and the hurt, causes crescent shaped puddles to bloom on the undersides of every shirt he tries to put on.

And then it’s loud and dark and he’s crammed into the corner of a booth with Mandy and four of her friends from work. The bass from the music playing over the speakers is pulsing the blood in his veins to pound furiously in his head.

It’s been two hours of squealing girls and cheap liquor and no Mickey.

And then all of a sudden it’s quiet and bright and all he can see are blue eyes and tattooed hands. Mickey’s staring at him so hard with those goddamn eyes, that Ian can feel the nerves in his spine short-circuit and rewire his memories, changing the narrative from _warm mouth_ and _goodbye_ , to _warm hands_ and _stay._

The staring goes on for the rest of the night, like a chess game of blinks and stares and silent spaces, and Ian doesn’t know what to make of any of it when Mickey leaves at the end of the night, without so much as a goodbye and a lingering once over.

He hates himself in that moment, for expecting and anticipating, and worrying about what he’d say.

Ian knows he couldn’t have he simply imagined that summer with the lingering looks and hard pressed collarbone kisses.

It couldn’t have been all parts imagination and no parts reality because his blood is permanently stained with the sweetness of Mickey’s tongue. And it’s that taste that twists at his heart every time the four chambers of the muscle fill and contract.

But,  he also knows that time stretches and changes and Mickey’s silence has said it all, and Ian’s frustrated for letting himself believe Mandy and her adamant belief that her brother would come back around.

And Ian knows it can’t be healthy to keep waiting, and wonders how the sun can still manage to rise every morning, knowing it’ll have to wait so long just to be able to share the sky with the moon for the briefest of moments, before it’s waiting again for another eclipse.

There’s a sliver of guilt that wanders in through the cracks at the bottom of his feet, and an ounce of regret that slides in through the slots along his back as his fingers dial a familiar number, and he responds to the eager _hello?_ , with, “Did you want to come over?”


	12. I've just been up here for, goddamn, years (Can you see now?)

She’s just sitting there, knees folded and head tilted in a way that reminds Mickey of one of those hairless Siamese cats.

_Entitled little fuckers._  

“Beer is not a food group, Mickey”, the bitch had literally just walked into his apartment, and opened his fridge, before he even had the chance to hang up.

“It fuckin’ should be.” Mickey had felt insecure standing there in his new skin, in this new place with her looking so sure of who she was supposed to be.

It was unsettling how comfortable Mandy had become in her skin, marching through his kitchen, flinging her lanky frame over his couch, when Mickey was still there in the middle of altering the seams of his own.

“Jesus Mickey. I’ll bring you some food over after my shift tomorrow.”

He hadn’t thought to reject her offer, didn’t think that after just weeks, his fridge could look like the leftover bin of a diner. But it did, pancakes and old tuna sandwiches and dried out coleslaw stocked the shelves of his fridge now. She had come every day after that phone call, like clockwork, shoving packages of food into his arms and pushing her way into his apartment.

And today was no different.

Mickey doesn’t really know how to ask her to stop, doesn’t really know how to string together the verbs and the nouns to explain to her that she doesn’t need to use food as an excuse to see him.

He’s afraid to ask her to stop, because her smile is wider than he ever remembers it being and her eyes are no longer shifting and shielded. There’s a light that seems to effervesce from her pores, and Mickey figures the blonde that is now in her hair probably doesn’t help.

Mandy’s never looked this light or relaxed in any of his memories, and looking at her alone is enough for him to justify the way he played his hand in that house of horrors over a year ago.

 “…Mickey?”

Mandy’s still sitting there, reading some trashy magazine, head still fuckin’ tilted, and trying to start a conversation with him, “Are you ok? You zoned out for a little bit.”

“Fine.”

“Mickey.” Her voice is suddenly soft, and her head is no longer tilted. She’s folded her legs up and her chin is resting in between her knees, and she reminds Mickey of when they were kids and their mother used to tell them stories while they ate breakfast in the kitchen.

The stories had always been the same, but every time Mandy’s eyes would be wide and wondering, her chin finding its home between her knees, as if the ending of the story would – or could – change each time she heard them.

“What?”

“Are we ever going to talk about Dad?” And there they were- the words that kept breath from the lungs and tightened knots in the gut.

It had been a week. It had been a week of Mandy coming over and staying way too long. It had been a week of comfortable silences, and the occasional conversation about Ian that never lasted more than a few words.

They had talked about her job, and his job, and movies and every single superficial conversation topic they could think of. They had, however, not talked about the house of horrors, or the blood, or any of the memories.

 He thought he would have more than a week.

But, Mandy’s staring at him, and the words are just lying there, open on the floor between them, and all Mickey knows is he doesn’t want to be having this conversation.

“There’s nothing left to talk about.” There’s a small red stain on the floor beneath Mandy’s feet, and Mickey can’t remember it ever being there before. But, it’s fascinating and holding his gaze and he has never felt more grateful for a penny sized stain before.

“Bullshit. Talk to me Mickey.”

“I already told you, there’s nothing left to talk about. You said the case was closed.”

“So you don’t want to talk about the fact that I came home to find dad bloodied and unconscious on the couch? Or how I couldn’t find you anywhere? Or how – “

“Mandy. Shut the fuck up. We’re not talking about this.” He can feel the ants of anxiety begin to crawl up his spine and settle beneath his skin.

“No, Mickey. We have to talk about this.”

“No. We don’t fuckin’ have to do anything.”

“Fuck you Mickey. We have to talk about this. You don’t just do what you did, and be able to be fine about it.”

“It’s been over a year Mandy. I’m fine.”

 That’s bullshit, but you know what? Fine. You don’t want to talk about what it did to you? What about me? You just left me there Mickey – “

“No. I gave you a fuckin’ alibi.  I told you to stay with Aunt Rani for the night. You don’t think it’d be suspicious as shit, if both of us left town?”

“You should have talked to me Mickey. I could have helped you-“

“Helped me how? You were going through your own shit with dad. I don’t remember you ever coming to talk to me about what he was doing to you.”

He knows he has her, her silence prickles goose bumps over his skin, until he can trace out a map of the Appalachians, and all of the valleys in between.

“That’s not the same thing Mickey.” Her voice is quiet and aching, and he can see the confidence she wore into his apartment, start to drip down towards the ends of her fingertips.

“He was hurting you, how is that not the same thing?”

“Ya, but what was happening to you was rape. You know that right Mickey?” He can’t meet her gaze, because the truth has never been beautiful or whole. The fuckers who came up with _the truth will set you free_ , clearly never spent a night in the confines of his ugly truth.

 His broken and jagged and slightly dirty truth.

But her truth, he knows, is no different. They have been in the same cage, beaten and weakened by the same captor, for years.

“The same thing was happening to you, Mandy.”

She doesn’t say anything, but Mickey can see something heavy leave her shoulders.

And she’s uncurling herself, from her place at the counter, and is walking over to where he’s sitting on the floor. Still unspeaking, she sits in front of him, with her long legs stretched out in front of her – Mickey always thought she could have been a dancer – until her tips of her feet touch his own.

Neither of them say anything, and Mickey can hear the quiet _drip-drip-drip_ of the shower, and the buzz of the vacant sign across the street.

It’s the kind of silence that normally makes Mickey want to scream and cry all in the same breath. But the soles of Mandy’s feet against his own, ground him and cause the guilt and the regret and the hurt to slowly loosen their grip.

And so, they both sit there, with Mandy pressing her heels against Mickey’s in hopes of taking some of his ache away.

 

* * *

 

Mickey feels sick.

It’s the kind of sick that bubbles in your gut, and makes your heart run marathons. He thinks it’s the alcohol, but the sober part of him knows it’s probably the knowledge that he might see Ian tonight.

He is cursing Mandy for inviting him to her birthday but mostly he is cursing his inability to say no to his only sister. If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have had to drown in bottles of Jack, just to be able to breathe through the anxiety that was getting to see Ian again.

He had been successful at avoiding Ian for almost a month since their last conversation, learning his schedule by memorizing the sound of shutting doors, and rattling keys. It wasn’t like he couldn’t leave his apartment when he pleased. It was just that he found himself waiting and counting seconds after he heard doors shuts and locks click, before he allowed himself to grab his coat and leave his apartment.

Mickey wishes he had said no. It wasn’t like Mandy would’ve remembered him showing up anyways, the bitch could barely remember her own name after a single shot.

She was also, _a lot_ louder after a shot.

“Mickey!!” His sister is barrelling towards him through the crowd of people and Mickey is pretty sure he knows what’s about to happen. He is pretty sure, no he is positive; no amount of alcohol could prepare him for what he is bracing himself for.

New York had changed her.

Affection was definitely not in the Milkovich vocabulary, especially affection towards each other. And so when her arms swing around his neck and her thin body presses itself into his for a hug, his hands awkwardly encircle her back, while his face, he is sure, holds the most uncomfortable grimace.

“Bitch, get off me, we aren’t the fuckin’ Brady bunch.”

It is too warm in the bar, and there are too many people, and Mickey can’t see Ian - which he has convinced himself, is a good thing, because he isn’t sure if the booze settling into his empty gut would be able to stay down if he did see him.

“Fuck you. It’s my birthday and I’m happy you could make it! I want you to meet everybody!” And then, Mickey is being dragged by the arm to a corner of the bar. It’s dimly lit and he can barely see- hell he can barely hear as Mandy begins to shout introductions at him.

He’ll blame it on the music later if anyone asks him about it, but in truth, his heart is pumping blood so quickly past his ears, and Mickey can’t hear anything except for Ian’s thundering heartbeat.

Because sitting in the corner, squished between two girls in next to nothing, looking up at him, his eyes holding some sort of silent dare, is Ian. And Mickey, having memorized the dictionary of Ian Gallagher looks, knows the translation.

_Are you done running yet?_

Even in their gazes, there is a fight for dominance, each one willing the other to lower their gaze first. It’s Mickey this time that looks away first, partly because he can hear Mandy, somehow through the music and blood rushing past his ears, shout his name. 

Mostly, though it’s because the time away has made him soft and he’s not sure how transparent his face is, and there isn’t enough time for him to relearn how to wear the mask the Southside had given him.

“MICK!!” She’s holding out her hand out expectantly, one foot already pointing towards the center of the club where a group of people are writhing and withering in some twisted and perverted pre-mating dance. Mickey knows exactly what she wants and he wants absolutely no part in it.

But suddenly, it’s not just Mandy holding out her hand it’s four other girls pushing him towards the dance floor, and farther away from Ian. He glances back before he is too far to see the green in Ian’s eyes. Somehow he knows that they’re still staring a dare at him.

And the knot in Mickey’s gut only twists tighter.

 

* * *

 

It’s been seven thousand, two hundred seconds - now seven thousand, two hundred and one.

It’s been seven thousand, two hundred and two seconds of Mickey memorizing and re-memorizing every angle and sharp turn of Ian’s face. It’s the longest he’s ever openly stared at Ian and Ian hasn’t met his gaze once.

It’s unnerving, Ian’s ability to look right through him, without blinking.

But that’s always been Ian, calm and calculated on the surface, while brewing a storm underneath it all.

And this is one of those times where Mickey can definitely feel the storm brewing.

Ian’s chin is jutted out, challenging Mickey to make a move. But all Mickey can see is Ian and the blood and his own dirty, marked up skin.

And even though the case is closed, and the devil is gone, there is shrapnel and broken glass still falling that play broken memories of a faceless girl and that couch that was too flat and too itchy in the reflection.

It’s like the moment after a volcano erupts, where the remnants of what used to be flutter softly from the sky, like dirty broken snowflakes. Except this is his life, and it’s been two years since the bomb detonated, and he’s still standing in the middle of the street trying to catch all of the falling pieces.

He can feel Ian’s gaze hard and insistent and shoot right through him, and Mickey knows he should probably say something. But, Ian looks unbroken and beautiful, and Mickey can’t get the word _murderer_ next to his name to seem any less dirty.

It’s one step forward, and two steps back, and he’s suddenly back to that summer with Ian, where joy and unbridled happiness were laced with fear and self-doubt. 

It drowns the small voice in the back of his head that tells him, _Ian would understand. Ian could still love you. Ian would still love this ugly part of you._ It drowns the voice, pushes its head under the water, and holds its there until the flailing stops and lungs stop trying to reach for air that isn’t there.

It’s purely survival and instinct, but Mickey can’t help but steal one last glance over Ian, before turning around and walking out of the bar without saying a word.

 

* * *

 

Mickey feels sick.

It’s the kind of sick that churns in your stomach and makes your head ache even when all the pain is centered in your gut. He thinks it’s the alcohol.

But really it’s the cruel, slow crawl of a realization - the realization that he had left Ian there, in the bar, without saying a word. It’s the realization that Ian, with his beautiful, beautiful, unmarked skin, could get anyone he laid his eyes on, and he had wanted Mickey.

It’s the realization that Mickey doesn’t want Ian to have anyone else but him. Broken, dirty and full of untold truths.

The thought of Ian’s hands on another man, brings the bile back up to burn his throat.

Then Mickey is downstairs before his brain is able to catch up to his feet, his fists beating out S.O.S. on the door in front of him. It’s desperate and insistent, and Mickey can start to feel his fist ache when the door is suddenly swung open.

His fist stops in mid-air, and all he can see are a pair green eyes; the only real clear thing in his current blurry state.

“Mick?”

And then, Mickey is suddenly painfully sober. The sleep that grips the edges of Ian’s voice instantly makes Mickey wishes he could crawl into that space along with him.

“Ia-“He’s about to tell Ian how his bed is too fucking big, and how the silence is too fucking quiet, and how he can still feel each breath Ian takes; but he can barely get a syllable out. Worse even, he can barely get his diaphragm to contract, to exhale, to breathe out- his lungs are burning for an exhale.

Instead the muscle sits useless and heavy, his brain unable to delegate basic functions, preoccupied and frozen by the sight in front of his eyes.

“Babe, is everything alright?” The owner of the voice is somewhere behind Ian, and Mickey can see parts of him; dark hair, large build, clean hands. But mostly, Mickey can see skin- naked skin that has probably already touched Ian. The acidic bile rising from his stomach is suddenly a very real thing.

And Mickey knows it’s not the alcohol at all.

It’s a slow motion that happens too quickly. Arms that aren’t his own are wrapping themselves around Ian’s torso and Mickey can’t seem to get his eyes to look anywhere else.

Looking at them wrapped up against each other is like staring at the sun, and Mickey can start to feel the familiar burn at the back of his eyes. The pain is gritty and persistent and blinding.

“Uh – sorry. Wrong apartment.” And then he’s turning around and retreating back up the stairs to his cave of lonely pillows.

“Mick – wait. Come the fuck on, Mick,” he can hear Ian calling down the hallway, but Mickey can’t seem to get himself to turn back around. Why stare at your own inadequacy in the face?

It’s only in the safety of his own apartment that his stomach contents are retched out of him and into the sink in the kitchen. He barely has time to wipe his face, when he hears a fast knock at the door, and an accompanying, “Mick. Answer the door.”

He’s still feeling sick and the sink is an awfully comfortable place to be when compared to the door where he knows stands Ian on the other side.

But the knocking doesn’t cease, and neither does the yelling, “MICK! Answer the goddamn door.”

His stomach is still turning, like tiny fists punching a protest chant in his gut, and he’s pretty sure it’s safest if he stays by the sink.

“Mick, seriously, answer the door. We need to talk. That wasn’t what you thought.”

He’s scolding the muscle that beats fervently in his chest at the sound of Ian’s voice, and is blaming his apparent inability to control his actions when under the influence of alcohol.

This wasn’t his plan.

It wasn’t his plan to find Ian with another man.

It had taken all of him to convince himself to change his mind, that maybe he and Ian could be melt their parts until they were pieces that could fit again.

But the sight of Ian wrapped up in perfectly unmarked hands, and the smell of something expensive mixed in with sweat, was enough to convince Mickey that it was best to just leave the past alone.

“Mickey, you aren’t the only one with secrets.” Ian’s fists have stopped drumming against his door. The wood muffles the normal clarity of his voice, so that Mickey can barely make out the words from his spot in the kitchen.

“I – what you saw wasn’t anything. He’s an ex. I don’t know why I called him.”

_Yes, you do. It`s because he`s clean. His skin, his life…his record. I know why you called him._ Mickey can feel himself make his way towards the door to make out all of Ian`s words.

“I just thought- I was excited to see you tonight, Mick. And then, at the bar, you looked so good,” Ian’s words make their way straight to Mickey’s gut, “And I just thought we would talk, or something. I only called him –“

_Because he’s clean and looks perfect next to you_. The palms of his hands are pressing hard and desperate against his closed eyes as his back slides against the door. The pressure doing everything but erasing the image of Ian wrapped up in hands that aren’t his own.

“– because I thought it would make me miss you less and-”

_It looked like it worked._

“– it didn’t work Mick. I was in the middle of asking him to leave when you knocked, so-”

_That was a stupid Fuckin’ idea._

“– please let me in Mick. Just to talk, I promise”

And because the both of them had always been able to feel when the other was about to exhale, Ian’s voice is at a bare whisper now, as though he can sense Mickey sitting there on the other side. He can feel his neck involuntarily shift until his cheek is pressed tight against the grain of the door, can feel the heat of Ian’s body pressed against the other side of the door his forehead against the wood, his fingertips tracing out the number on the doorframe. 

Mickey wonders what they must look like to the rest of the world. The two of them a living contradiction, oil and water, dirty and clean.

He wonders if it looks similar from outside as it does to him from inside. He wonders if maybe he just can’t see where his broken parts could fit in with Ian’s. Wonders if maybe, Ian has some broken parts too, that are waiting to slide and lock in place with pieces of his.

“Just let me in Mick.”


	13. Author's Note

I just want to preface the next chapter with a little insight into my thought process when writing this chapter. If any of you are offended by/don’t want to read about what happens to Mickey in “Cascading Failures” (Season 3) then you should skip this chapter.

There is a moment in the chapter where we get to explore Terry’s thoughts for a bit. The character of Terry has always confused me, because while on one hand he is a homophobic, racist prick, he also seems to think that his moral compass is correct, and in fact not broken.

I have always held the belief that “bad” people are not inherently bad, but hurt, or damaged or misunderstood in some way. There are a few instances out of the even fewer Terry scenes in Shameless, that struck me as contradictory to the characteristics that Terry is painted out to have.

The fact that Mandy and Mickey still call their father, “dad”, was a dynamic that interested me the most, because they’ve done it both in and out of Terry’s presence.  There is, in my opinion, a huge part of them that still seeks and desires the approval of their father, regardless of the twisted and horrible things he has done.

This made me wonder what Terry’s thought process must have been when he realized his son was gay – and how he got to that stage of thinking, because as far as I’m concerned, intolerance of any kind is a learned behavior and not one that is innate in us when we are born.

I wanted to use this as an experiment, for me, to try to understand and find the humanity in a character that is so vile and unlike any character that I would want to be associated with in reality.

I apologize if I upset anyone, or offended anybody with my interpretation of the character. Please feel free to give me your feedback! I’d be interested to hear what opinions others have on Terry.


	14. Filling Up Hulls with goddamn fears (I am here now)

The first time Terry ever hit Mickey, Mickey had been young and Mandy, even younger. The memory is vile and bitter and puckers the lips as vinegar would.

Mickey can’t remember what they had been doing, or what had been said, or what the punch itself had felt like. Instead, he remembers an instinctual grab in his gut to shove Mandy under the bed, and the brief moment right before the nerves in his face were able to complete their circuits to the pain centers in his brain.

It’s a blank moment, a black moment – a moment that he remembers best.

The thing with children is that they are impressionable and mouldable, but more than that, they are adaptable. They can adapt to the way smoke lingers in their bedsheets, or the way that liquor is the first thing they smell when they wake up.

They learn to identify the lullabies in the clicking of the safety on a gun, or the shine that glosses eyes when the needles and the white powders come out to play.

These are the memories that become etched on like a second skin and play on in flashback form when you least expect it.

But more than anything it’s the aftertaste that sticks around. Fear in its unique way, compounding its affects long after the storm, causing an acidic buildup that corrodes the lining of stomachs and the beating muscles of hearts.

Mickey had moulded and folded his fear until it wrapped around him like an angry skin, wrinkled and sharp and daring you to question its authenticity. He had become good at this character, learning the rules of the game and playing his part.

He was good at this game. Good, until Ian.

It was Ian, who saw right through the disguise, saw the fear, and loved him anyways. It was Ian who thought they could fight the unbeatable fight, who thought a pistol and an angry father was nothing to be afraid of.

But when Terry had caught them - Ian bending Mickey over their living room couch- the idea that Mickey could break free from his façade was left to cower in the corner as his father sneered _Milkovich men are not gay_ from above.

_When Terry first hits Mickey, he can feel the butt of the pistol crunch and shatter bones in his face. The pain is unspeakable and unlike any of the blank or black memories he has of his childhood. Mostly, it’s because he can see Ian out of the corner of his eye, forehead bloody, eyes hooded._

_And after a while, the first time Terry hits Mickey begins to blend into all of the times afterwards. Ian is no longer there, the only evidence of his presence is made by the sweaty smell in his sheets and the really faint indentation left in the cushion of one of the couches._

_There’s a Russian girl who sits in the corner now with dead eyes and dirty nails. She’s been here before, coming like clockwork after the first. It’s like dance classes on Wednesday nights, except this is an appointment to watch a boy get bloodied and then to ride him until he comes._

_There had been a few months when she had stopped coming, and Mickey had thought it was safe to breathe again. But he was wrong, because she is here again, sitting in that corner, and chewing a piece of skin on her thumb. Something raw churns in his gut every time he chances a look up at her._

_She hasn’t even bothered to put her dress back on. A cigarette hangs from her lips as she cracks her neck from side to side, and she reminds Mickey of a wrestler gearing up for her next match._

_Every fight before this one he had been able to take. Shut down during the pain, moved his hips until biology was able to end the war.  But this time he’s not ok, because it’s no longer just him getting hit._

_He had thought that he would always be chosen – like some twisted game of dodgeball where third graders pick their teams – he had thought he would always be the one who was chosen. But he’s not, because the smell of the Russian girl is still poisoning the air, his face is caked over and bloody, and he can hear his father grunting and Mandy crying in the other room._

_For a second he’s brought back to when he was seven and had been looking for his mom, because even then he somehow knew the kinds of sounds that hurting made. And it’s sickening how similar the two scenes are, his mom- Mandy- on her stomach, face pressed into the pillow, hair clutched between fat knuckles and her arm twisted by another back so far that Mickey can see the bone stain the already pale skin white._

_But it’s not the brutality of the act of his father grunting and pressing further forward into Mandy, who is crying into the pillow that brings Mickey back to the present._

_It’s her eyes._

_Mandy always had their mother’s eyes. And it’s those eyes, which are desperately pleading him to leave the room, to shut the door, to turn around and walk away; it’s those eyes that are fueling his sudden change in disposition._

_And before he is cognisant of the fact that he is reacting, his hand is already grabbing the fire iron, crusted in his own blood and he’s entering the bedroom and he’s hitting, blindly, wildly, until Mandy’s behind him, grabbing his arm._

_But then, suddenly he’s not, because he’s still sitting on the couch that smells of liquor and cigarettes and he’s looking down at empty hands and a bloody fire iron on the table in front of him. And he can still hear Mandy crying and Terry grunting._

_It’s a sinister lullaby that Mickey hasn’t heard since he was a child. And he feels like a fucking coward, finally living up to his father’s expectations – nothing but a dick-loving pussy._

_Somewhere in the fog, he hears Mandy’s crying stop and the front door slam. The Russian has left as well, and Mickey knows what he needs to do; it’s the same gut grabbing instinct that he had to hide Mandy under the bed all those years ago._

_He can hear heavy footsteps start towards him, but this time Mickey is ready._

_He’s pulled the fire iron from the table and under the cushion, and as he grips his weapon the churning in his gut slowly slackens, and his nails, biting white crescents into the palms of his hands release their grip._

_Because, the moment liquor-laden breath reaches his nose, he’s swinging until the fire iron meets something solid._

* * *

Mickey had always been his smallest child. Terry can recall Mickey as a child with stubby, short legs trying to reach forward for another step.

Determined little fuck.

But small or not, Terry knows what it means to be a _real man_ and he wasn’t going to let a little height stop him from making sure that his sons, short or not, grow up to be Milkovich _men_.

So even under his fog and haze, there’s the undeniable feeling of pride whenever his boys pile into the back of the truck with their guns and drugs and he can’t help but think of his own old man, _Never thought I was man enough to raise men, but I showed you didn’t I dad?_

He’s so hellbent on proving that fucker wrong, that he stays, even after their mother dies. She had been the only woman to ever love him, despite everything she knew about him. And while she had never said it out loud, Terry knows she loved Mickey the most.

Mickey had been a quiet baby, one who barely cried or fussed around.

_The fuck’s wrong with this kid? He doesn’t scream, he doesn’t cry._

_Shhh. He’s a precious baby, nothing is wrong with him._

Mickey had always been her favorite.

And if he’s going to be honest with himself, Mickey’s kind of been his favorite too. The little fucker had grown up to be grumbling and loud and the only one competent enough to understand the math needed when he and boys would go on their runs.

Mickey’s eyes would roll skyward and up, and his fingers would dance around an invisible keyboard, as he shuffled numbers around in his head.

He was right almost every time.

Terry’s standing in front of Mickey, whose eyes are rolled skyward and up, but there are no numbers that are dancing underneath his fingertips this time.

Instead they’re clutching at the couch underneath him, as the Russian girl rides him into the couch.

She’s been here before, too afraid to remember how to say _no_. She had been there since he had come home expecting an empty house, only to be greeted with two bodies groaning over their living room couch.

_Everything’s blurred, as if the light switch behind his eyes is permanently set to be dimmed low. It’s nothing he’s not used to; he’s been living his life behind foggy, liquor lenses for most of his life. But this fog is a little heavier and smells faintly of disappointment and sex._

_The scene that is playing in front of him is throwing all of his hard work back in his face and he can feel an anger that is twisted and red bubble up from his gut. Because there is his son, the one who had always, been the smallest in his class, taking it like some aids-monkey from that red-head Gallagher kid that used to date Mandy._

_The face that Mickey is making is one of bliss and the mantra that had been drilled into his mind since birth is chanting itself between his buzzing ears, ‘Milkovich men will be strong and demand nothing. You will not cry, Terry. You will not be a pussy, Terry. A strong man will take his woman and show the world that he too can raise strong men that will carry on his name.’_

_It’s a feeling of necessity and urgency, and his hand is punching that red-head- Ian? – into the couch._

_Somewhere under the fog, he can hear Mickey yelling, ‘Dad, get off him. Dad! Get off him!’ And it only makes him angrier. ‘Why are you protecting his aids-monkey? Have I taught you nothing?’ His hand, without much thought, reaches for the pistol in the back of his pants, and he can hear the crunch of bone through his haze, getting louder with each punch thrown. ‘Papa, are you proud of me now?’_

_This is the only way he knows how to fix the mistake. And he can hear his own father’s voice sing in time with each punch as he raises his fists up and down on his youngest son._

_This is too big of a mistake to go unbalanced. ‘See papa? I’ll fix what you thought I could never fix’_

_Mickey had always been his favorite child. But this was something he couldn’t be, it wasn’t natural. It wasn’t right. He refused to be the father of this blip in biology._

_If it was the last thing he’d do, he’d fix this._

_He had to fix this._

_He could fix this._

_He knows how to fix this. His father had been successful fixing him so many years ago._

_And so every time the Russian girl rides Mickey with his dick soft and his face bloodied shut, Terry can feel his father’s approval through the clouds, ‘you my boy, maybe you are not such a pussy after all.’_

The room around him is different than it was when he last had his eyes open. He’s lying down, naked and on his bed. The room smells faintly of sex and sweat and Terry can’t remember the steps between last punching Mickey and waking up in his room.

The ceiling is spinning even though he’s not moving at all, and he figures maybe if he were to stand the whirling will stop. So he’s standing and stumbling and grasping at the walls as he makes his way out of the room and into the living room.

Something behind him crashes as his hand knocks over the contents on a shelf. From where he’s standing, he can still see the back of Mickey’s head, lolled over and weakened from the last punch of Terry’s fists.

The Russian girl is no longer in her spot in the corner of the room, and Terry thinks maybe he can try to talk some sense into his boy. This was all for his own good all so he could be a real _man_. _Milkovich men are real men._

_Real men-_ But before he can finish the thought, it’s a _crack_ and a _thud_ and there’s a flash of pain and surprise before everything goes blank.

* * *

 The first time Mickey hits Terry, he’s young and Mandy even younger. The memory is vile and bitter and puckers the lips as vinegar would.

Only, Mickey remembers everything that had been said, and everything that had been done. Mostly, he remembers the dull _thud_ and _crack_ the skull makes when met with iron, the surprised and strangled cry that comes from his father’s throat and the blood that is bright and smells sharply of something metallic.

It’s a blank moment, a black moment – a moment that he remembers best.

 

 


	15. I know about it darling, I've been standing here

“Just let me in Mick. **"**

Ian’s voice is quiet and just a little bit desperate on the other side of the door, and the words are falling out of his mouth before he can catch any of the pieces, “You were right Gallagher. People never change.”

The door isn’t enough of a barrier to stop the sound from travelling through.

And Ian’s responding instantly, “Bullshit, Mick. Just let me in so we can talk.”

Mickey can’t bear to open the door, can’t bear to feel the drops of disappointment, open mouthed silences, and Ian’s sad, sad eyes.

“I’ve played at this game for a long time Ian. I think I can for a little while more.”

“Mick. You’re not the same you were in Chicago. _I’m_ not the same Ian was when I was in Chicago.”

“Of course you are.”

“No, Mick. I’m diff- not different, just not quite the same. Do you remember Monica?”

He’s subconsciously made is way up from his position on the floor, and is now looking through a space in the door he’s cracked open.

“Your psycho mom? What about her?”

“Mick-she’s not- I’m like Monica.”

“You tried to off yourself during Thanksgiving?”

“No- Mick. Jesus.”

“Then you’re nothing like Monica.”

“I have to take medication now. Sometimes I feel –“

“Ok. But, I’m still that guy who beat the shit out of you in Chicago.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Ian, what you and I had, made me –“ _free_ , is what he wants to say.

But, instead it’s choked out air and words that fill out the space, “Look, man. I – you’ve got to know that the pills you take now don’t change who you are, Ian. Don’t change anything, really. You’re still you, just – “

“I have to take them for the rest of my life. Things aren’t the same.”

“Ya, people who have herpes are stuck with that shit for life too.  If you ask me, they’re worse off. That shit can come back without warning.”

“Mick. It’s not funny. That’s not the same thing.”

“How is it any different Ian? You have to take pills? So take them. You’re still the same kid you were back in Chicago.”

“No I’m not-“

“But, nothing. You still want to hold hands and have a grand old fucking announcement, and you left Mr. Perfect face – perfect body –perfect hands for what?”

“I- I just…”

“You said you left him Ian. When did you leave him?”

“How are you not even worried about me being bipolar?”

“Because it doesn’t change anything. Answer the fucking question. When did you leave him?”

“Why does it matter?”

“When, Ian?”

“When I saw you.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t-“

It’s floodgates opening and eureka moments and wide-eyed realizations. Because now it’s Ian too who realizes that he had been waiting for Mickey to catch up to him after all of this time.

“You dropped everything Ian. Mr. Perfect-everything, because you saw me. Because, you still think we have something to figure out.”

“Don’t we?”

“I’m only going to disappoint you, Ian.”

“Jesus Christ, you two. Mickey, open the fucking door. Ian, stand the fuck up. Get the fuck inside the apartment and sort your shit out.” They’re both startled at the sudden intrusion.

But, Mandy’s standing there – _that bitch minding everybody’s business –_ with her hands in her hoodie, eyebrow raised expectantly, and waiting for Mickey to fully open his door.

And because, she is one scary bitch when she wants to be, he opens his door and lets them in.

* * *

Mickey wants to scream. One of those silent screams you scream in a dream that wakes you up hoarse and sweaty and makes you desperate for some sort of comfort.

Because here they are, Ian, Mandy, Mickey, like three green toy soldiers who have come back from the war looking for the things that had been before the blood and the guns.

The apartment is eerily quiet, and Mickey can feel his lungs stretch to suck in the air that he hears Ian let out.

“Why did you leave?” He jumps slightly at the sound of Ian’s voice. He can’t be sure who Ian’s talking to.

But Mandy speaks first, “You had left. Mickey wasn’t coming back. There was nothing left for me.”

Mickey has questions too. But, his questions are like keys to Pandora’s Box, and he’s pretty certain he doesn’t want to open it.

“But, Mandy, I had been gone a long time before you left.” He can see Ian’s brows furrow further as he tries to do the math while Mandy’s talking, can see Ian realize that it wasn’t really adding up.

“I know. But I couldn’t just leave. Mickey was… I couldn’t leave. I was planning to Ian. I was, I wanted to make sure you were ok, but then Mickey left. And then I had to wait. I needed to

protect you and Mickey.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I couldn’t have just left, you know? The investigation would still be open, and they would have found Mickey eventually.”

“Mandy…what did you do?” Mickey already knows what’s coming.

“I had to protect you Mickey. When Ian had left, and it got worse I didn’t do anything to stop any of it.”

“Mandy, I didn’t ask you to protect me.” He can’t keep his voice from quivering, and it’s like his body already knows what’s been done.

“Fuck you. Everything I did, I did for the two of you.”

_When she comes home the next day, she knows that something is wrong before she even enters the yard. The door is ajar and she can smell something far more sinister than the fear and pain that normally coats the air._

_Terry’s the first thing she sees. His face is bloodied and bruised and his eyes are closed and Mandy thinks he looks almost innocent. He’s lying still on the floor, and normally this wouldn’t have warranted worry form her – Terry had always been able to sleep wherever he landed._

_But it’s all too still and the smell of iron isn’t matched with an equally strong stench of liquor. It’s all blood and not enough booze and it causes the hole in her gut to grow until she’s running through the house looking for Mickey._

_And when she comes up empty handed, just as she knew she would, the puzzle pieces begin to slide into place. They’re large tectonic like pieces that hold gravity in them that’s unlike anything Mandy’s ever felt._

_It all makes sense now – sending her away, giving her an alibi. Even then, with his eye forced shut by the swelling and teeth bleeding, Mickey had been protecting her._

_And no one had been there to protect Mickey. The thought alone brings her to her knees._

_“Oh Mickey, what have you done?”_

_She can feel dry tears prick at her eyes. But it’s been years since she’s cried, and Mandy doesn’t want to waste her tears in this room, over this body. So, collecting her thoughts, she begins to formulate a plan._

_Iggy and Colin are in jail and they haven’t seen Jamie in a long time, and there is no way she is going to call up her uncles for help. She knows leaving the body where it is her only choice, and normally that’s the extent of what she would have done, except there’s Mickey. And if there is anything she knows about him, it’s that he’s calculated the risks and the gains and every angle of the situation._

_And if she can’t find him now, it’s probably because he doesn’t want to be found. She wonders how many hours he has been running for._

_It doesn’t matter, because she knows what she has to do. She’s been around guns and the blood long enough to know how to clean a crime scene, and by default she also knows how to dirty one up._

_There’s a fire iron near the couch where Terry lays, the end is rusted and bent and without too much inspection, Mandy knows that it’s blood that forms the hardened crust around the edges._

_And maybe it’s the memory of watching Terry use it on Mickey, or maybe it’s the way that she remembers how happy Ian had been when Mickey had been around, but she’s moving on autopilot._

_She’s wiping the bar with a dirty rag and then placing her hands around the ends as if she were a baseball pro about to walk up to bat. If she were to think about it, it really was sad how easy this all was for her to do._

_It happens in a blink – piling all the empty beer bottles next to Terry, undressing Terry, ripping her own top, tearing through her own underwear._

_As Mandy looks around, she’s certain she’s thought of everything, and so she picks up the phone._

_“9-11, what’s your emergency?”_

_“I think I killed my father.”_

* * *

It’s quiet.

The three of them are still and standing, in the middle of the living room. Standing like three tiny soldiers, in a broken, crooked line, with their secrets scattered all over the floor.

It’s one of those messes Mickey knows can’t be swept up.

He’s the first to speak. “You stupid, bitch.”

Mandy’s eyes are on him in an instant. They’re teary and hurt, and hold words that the Milkovich siblings have never said aloud to anyone. Words like _I love you._ Words like _I’m glad you’re alive._ Words like _I would do it all again because you’re my brother._

It makes Mickey want to be anywhere but here.

“You thought you could just bat a few eyelashes, and they would forget that you were admitting to murder? Jesus Christ, Mandy. Murder?!”

“I lucked out Mick. It was Tony who came down. And when he saw me half naked on the couch and Terry without his pants on, he didn’t even put me in handcuffs. I wasn’t even eighteen yet.”

“But Mandy – you could have-“

“But I didn’t.”

“But why?”

“Because you did the same for me. With dad. You stopped it. In the only way you knew how.”

“Is that why Lip called you?” Ian’s voice is quiet and cracked.

“Partly, I guess. He told me what had happened to you. Figured if he stuck us both together, we’d have a better chance than if we were apart.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

And then Ian’s laughing, clutching his sides, until he can’t stand anymore. It’s a laugh that’s real and honest, and Mickey can feel the day make its way through the cracks, until it’s nothing but light in the apartment, and Ian’s beaming like the fucking sun.

* * *

It’s late when Mandy finally leaves, and they’re left standing in the middle of Mickey’s one room apartment. It's not like they've solved anything, but something feels closed - or opened - between the two (three) of them, and Mickey knows things between Ian and him have definitely changed. 

They’re past first dates and first kisses. Yet, there’s a nervous tension that still courses through Mickey that most closely resembles fluttering butterflies and Mickey knows he’s officially lost it.

He knows Ian deserves more than what he can give him, and he’s trying to find the words to verbalize it all, but Ian’s looking at him like he’s holding the whole fucking world and it makes Mickey question Ian’s ability to rationalize thought.

He’s the first to break the quiet silence.

“Look man, I-“

“Mick, shut up.” Ian’s crossing the room now, a steely look of determination set into his brow and Mickey has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. After all of this time, he doesn’t know whether it’s endearing or just plain stupid that Ian still thinks he can intimidate Mickey.

“Aey, fuck off Gallagher, I’m trying to say something-“

“And I asked you to shut up Mickey.” Ian’s voice has lowered and suddenly Mickey doesn’t feel like rolling his eyes anymore. Because in an instant, Ian is backing him into the wall, and bracing his hands on either side of his head just to press up close; Mickey swears they are sharing the same breath.

“Gallagh-“

“Mick. Last time. Shut up.” Ian’s whispering now, and if it’s at all possible he’s pressed closer into Mickey. “I have some things I want to say too, and I don’t want you to say anything until I’m done. Ok?”

“Gall-“

“Mick.”

“Fine.”

“Three things. First, I’m staying here, with you. Despite what you think, you’re the best thing for me. You’ve been the best thing for me since I was fiftee-

“No I haven’t Gallagher.”

“Mick…” Ian’s voice holds a warning that, despite its intention, sends shivers through Mickey’s spine. “Second, I’m sorry. I pushed and pushed, and didn’t give you time to process what had happened to us… to you.  I didn’t know what Terry was doing to you, or what he was saying to you. I didn’t even want to think about what I saw him do to you.  I just wanted all of you, and I couldn’t see why I couldn’t have you. Third, I lo-“

But Mickey’s done listening, and is closing the fraction of space that exists between the two of them.

And as he swipes his tongue across Ian’s bottom lip, Ian lets out an involuntary groan that resounds through Mickey, and he can’t recall for the life of him, why he had resisted kissing Ian for so long.

It’s heady and sweet (Ian tastes better than any of his memories) and Mickey wants more. But his hands, which had tried to make their way beneath Ian’s shirt, have found a way to become tangled in a mess with Ian’s fingers, which are pressing his own hands into the wall behind him. 

Mickey is too distracted by the welcome presence of Ian’s tongue taking another taste of the inside of his mouth to know whether the action of his eyes rolling into the back of his head is a result of the pleasure of being this close to Ian again or the frustration of not being able to control his own damn hands.

Without his hands, he’s left to strain against the strong grip Ian has on him. He’s trying to heed the desperate demand his heart is pounding against his skin, _closerclosercloser_. 

But he doesn’t have to fight to get closer for too long, because it’s like Ian’s own beating skin is in sync with Mickey’s every need, and his hands are suddenly free and Ian is lifting Mickey’s shirt above his head and tasting his skin.

And then they’re moving at freight train speeds, and he’s touching Ian’s skin and Ian’s hair and his mind is white-blank noise except for a pulsing single word _IanIanIan._

It’s tumbling over and breathlessness and Mickey doesn’t care what happens next as long as he can keep chasing the sweet taste of Ian’s tongue.

But Ian has other plans, and he’s pressing Mickey’s face into his bedroom door, while biting blooming red roses along his neck. Mickey can feel Ian strain through his pants into his back, and it’s all he can do from coming right then and there.

Ian’s kissing his way back up to his ear and growls a deep, “I’m staying Mick.”

“Uh-guhhh…Ian-ahh.” He’s trying formulate words – really he’d be happy if he could formulate a single coherent thought, but Ian’s hands have found their way into the front of his boxers, and his mouth keeps nipping at all of the spots along his skin that seem to hold the nerves that run directly to his –

“What the fuck, Gallagher?!” The hands that were on him a minute ago are now gone, and the weight of Ian against his back is also gone. He’s spinning around to see Ian standing on the other side of the hallway with a smirk on his face, and bulge in his pants.

“Again, what the fuck Ian?”

“Tell me I can stay.”

“Are you serious right now?” 

“Mick…”Mickey thinks that it should be illegal how low Ian’s voice can dip.

He gives Ian a half shrug – because there is no way he’s going to let Ian win this one.

“Whatever Gallagher, just finish this please.” And maybe it’s because Ian’s never heard Mickey say _please_ for anything before, but in the next instant, Mickey is spun back around and pressed back into the door, with Ian’s heavy weight settling back over him.

And somewhere between Mickey’s boxers coming off, and the door to his bedroom opening, Ian’s clothing makes its way to the floor.

He’s happy with the realization and remembrance that he showered earlier that day, because Ian’s skin is like unbroken porcelain, and he knows that he must be insulting some sculptor out there by touching something so flawless. 

Ian’s hands are everywhere, leaving heat trails down his back, through his hair, across the pointed joints of his hips, until they reach the juncture and – _fuck_. He doesn’t understand how, or when Ian had learnt how to manipulate his hands the way he is right now, and if he were really honest, doesn’t really think he wants to know.

The words that Ian hadn’t let him say earlier abruptly make their way back into his brain; _Look at us together man. You could get anyone. Why would you want to stay with –_

Mickey can’t really remember where that thought was going, because Ian has managed to press Mickey into another wall with his hand wrapped around him tight, stroking and soothing, twisting and pulling while his other hand – _fuck_ \- are stretching and curving deep into him.

“Fuck, Ian…” His hips are bucking backwards against Ian’s, begging.

There’s low whine that escapes him and he nearly loses it when Ian chuckles at the noise.  

And instead of granting Mickey any kind of release, he’s pushing Mickey further against the wall, his unrelenting fingers probing further, pressing harder and because they’ve danced this dance so many times and Ian knows he’s ready without needing to ask – and then Ian’s entering him, slowly at first.

“Tell me I can stay, Mick.”

“I’m going to tell you to mov-uugh.” Ian’s hips snap forward until he’s buried deep into Mickey – and Mickey feels bad for Ian, because there is really no chance at this point that the boy is going to get a single coherent word from Mickey’s mouth.

“Tell me I can stay.” Mickey’s quickly rethinking his previous thought, because Ian is dragging his thrust out at such a slow speed and then snapping his hips forward so quickly that Mickey is sure that he will say anything just to get him to hurry the fuck up.

“Do you want to come Mick?” Ian’s hands are twisting and squeezing while he slowly draws out of Mickey, and there is nothing for Mickey to do but grab at the wall in front of him.

“How do you want me Mick? Like this?” Ian’s hips snap forward forcefully again and his teeth bite at Mickey’s neck, “Tell me I can stay Mick.”

“Fine…ugh…fuck…Ian” That’s all Mickey can choke out, before Ian’s moving at the rhythm that they’re both used to.

He’s close, and he knows Ian’s not far behind.

It’s the feeling you get when you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, where you know with a single step forward, the numbness in your feet and the explosives in your stomach will dissipate with the fall.

And suddenly Ian is shoving them both head first and screaming off of the cliff, hands grasping until knuckles are white and sloppy lips are biting saliva trails along his skin.

It’s a nose first plummet that causes everything to go white and blank and just a little bit numb.

Ian’s hands, large and gripping – still – are the only things that keep him grounded and aware that he – they – have effectively, fucked each other onto the floor.

“Huh, we didn’t even make it to the bed.” Mickey chuckles into the darkness of the room. Ian’s still pressed soft into him and they’ve managed to fold themselves into a pile and Mickey finds the juxtaposition of strewn clothes and dirty jackets next to them almost poetic.

“Mmmhmm.” Ian’s making no move to get up and Mickey can feel his eyes droop heavy; the smell of sex and Ian lulling him to sleep.

And Mickey can barely remember a time it had been this easy to fall asleep.


	16. Epilogue: Is all that he offers, a safety in the end?

 Ian has found a way to knot himself around Mickey so that their limbs are stitched into an intricate pattern of flesh and sweat and Mickey can’t bring himself to open his eyes yet.

They’re sitting on the couch (which is actually a makeshift pile of the pillows from his room). He’s sitting – slouching really- against the wall as a re-run of some movie about post- apocalyptic earth plays on the grain of the television in front of them.

 Neither of them are really watching the action on the screen, Ian has found a way to wrap his arms around Mickey’s torso while allowing his hands to run through his hair, or occasionally stroke the skin on his arm.

Lazy fingers tracing the marks on his skin, and ebb him between sleep and consciousness.

He had always scarred easily, his pale complexion remembering every assault against him, as if demanding that he never forget. Ian’s tracing so lightly that Mickey can barely feel the touch, the scar tissue has twisted and mangled to form jagged dead ends where his nerves dare not to go.

But it’s Ian’s touch. And even the slightest of his touches can ignite the faintest of pains, and it’s as though every one of his scars is burning and reliving the feeling of a fire iron slicing and tearing through his skin.

It’s like Ian can feel it too, because under each finger, Mickey can feel whispers of an apology letter being scripted across his skin. The feeling is intoxicating and one by one, Mickey can feel the twisted and ugly scars fold into the skin and heal up beneath the soothing apologizing dance of Ian’s fingers.

Mickey has his own apology letter written on the tip of his tongue, but the consonants and vowels are heavier than he anticipated and his tongue is fixed to the bottom of his mouth. 

He begrudgingly lifts his head out of the nook of Ian’s neck to look up at the boy who’s looking right back at him like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, he wonders if it’s just better that his words stay planted and permanent on his tongue.

Because there are still so many words they could string together to make bandages for the old wounds they both still carry but there will never be enough time to make up for the breaths they had spent apart.

They both have wounds and scars and Mickey knows it can never be the way that it was.

He knows they’re bigger than any teenaged love story, but he also knows that the words that have newly tied them back together can just as easily rip them apart.

So he leaves his apology letter to sink and rest, and places a kiss on the corner of Ian’s jaw and whispers, “I want you to stay.”

It’s not close to a declaration of forever, and it’s far from I love you, but it’s real and honest and causes Ian’s fingers to still against his skin, before they are replaced with soft breaths and hard kisses.

“I love you too, Mick.” Ian whispers it so quietly that Mickey barely hears it.

And Mickey thinks that maybe the two of them might have a chance after all.

* * *

_It is soft and hard and over way too soon. It is mostly teeth and not enough air, but it is the best kiss he has ever experienced in his short fifteen years._

_He isn’t aware that he should count the number of times that he will replay the moment._

_Because he will- replay it._

_It will play when Mickey goes to Juvie, and between the days when he gets to see Mickey again and during all of the instances in between.  And while every memory with Mickey will be well preserved and placed in a twelve vault safe, available only for his personal viewing, this particular memory will not be, its magnetic cassette will become well-worn and used and the picture will no longer be able to be played without a wide band of interference running horizontally across the screen._

_It will be full of angry Terry and Russian whores and piercing pains and bloodied fists. And eventually the interference will fill with so much memory that it will be able to stand alone as a full length film._

_But Ian is too busy running his tongue over his lips to get every last drop of Mickey’s taste. Too busy pushing the familiar reverse-stop-play sequence on the moment to think about what could happen in the end._

_There is too much to memorize, and too much to savour for Ian to think about anything else but the glorious taste that is Mickey Milkovich._

_Destructive or not, Ian knows he will fight tooth and nail for just another kiss, because how can you introduce cocaine to an addict and expect them not to ask for another hit?_

_It is too much bite and not enough tongue. But the slide of rough lips against his own has caused a sudden shift of tectonic plates in his chest, and it’s a feeling that Ian wants to feel over and over and over again._

_Ian wonders how many more times he’ll be able to get Mickey Milkovich to kiss him._

_One…_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Titles for each chapter were taken from Heavenly Father (Justin Vernon).


End file.
